


A Light in the Dark

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Post Character Death, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 7: A Rocket’s Red Glare / Defend the Castle adaptationTension between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel comes to a head, threatening the freedom of the entire Commonwealth. The battle lines are drawn as Danse reaps responsibility for what he’s done.
Relationships: Paladin Danse/John Hancock (Fallout), Paladin Danse/John McDonough
Series: Who We Are Now [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/530458
Comments: 43
Kudos: 19





	1. The Phantom

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for Season 7: [RISE (Katy Perry Cover) by SUPERFRUIT, Mary Lambert, Brian Justin Crum, Mario Jose](https://youtu.be/U85U3dPuiR4/)

DANSE

The Prydwen

October 22nd, 2282

A dinging toll over the speakers brought ship activity to a halt. “Attention, crew,” came Captain-Lancer Kell’s authoritative voice. “The time is now 1800 hours. We’ve moored above Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Skies are clear and the area free of high-level radiation. Ground deploys will disembark at 700 tomorrow. Officers, see Proctors Ingram and Teagan for dispatch assignments. Have a good evening, Prydwen.” 

On the training floor, a dozen teenage aspirants under Danse’s authority had taken the interruption as an excuse to drop from push-ups, now resting on their bellies or elbows. Only one of them held form, arms shaking slightly, black hair obscuring half his face, exposing a scarred cheek. “Were you excused?” fifteen-year-old Arthur Maxson barked at his fellows, sweat dripping into his eyes. “Back to task!”

Danse raised a brow and allowed a small, proud smile. “Don’t make a peer remind you of your duty, aspirants!” he said, slowly pacing before the group. “Back to it!”

The double dose of scolding snapped the aspirants back to action. They formed two neat rows up on the highest level of the Prydwen’s interior. Support beams laced the curving hull above them. On the other side of a wall, Scribe Neriah’s lab shared the deck, the science crew having retired for the day to make way for the cadets’ training. Steadfast PT on a ship with no exposure to nature was paramount, and they did best as they could with plyometrics and bodyweight strength training. Danse couldn’t have his aspirants winded after a quick sprint on land. Most would be part of the ground units sent out tomorrow morning. Everyone would be happy for the supply run. Storage aboard the Prydwen never depleted to the point of soups and gruel, but fresh food, new tech and foreign specimens would revitalize those serving.

Life aboard the ship was a series of constants – scheduled meals, scheduled sleep, scheduled duties. Though some onboard initially suffered mild claustrophobia, they adjusted. Air quality was fresh, pulled from outside instead of recycled. With the exceptions of the ship’s bowels, noise was at a minimum, the motorwork outside the hull. Only the slight creak of the ballasts served as a reminder that the ship was in transit. All stations were orderly, and the surfaces clean, curtesy of the squires’ busy work. And with the other choice being the Wasteland below, they bit their tongues.

In the air, Kells was the ranking leader. On the ground, it was Danse. The two men shared responsibility for conducting the training of new crewmates: Kells, the squires, and Danse the aspirants, including Arthur Maxson. Danse was grateful for the division, as he wouldn’t know what to do with a child. Danse had volunteered as the heir’s mentor and was personally responsible for him. Even their quarters shared a common wall. Without direct oversight, Arthur had developed hotheadedness and was quick to judge any situation. The young man had an obsession with the Outcasts. Being on the ship was an attempt by the Elder to separate Arthur from their tainted influence. Proper instruction should curb his brash nature, and Danse was more than up to the task. It was his own doing though, using the boy as an excuse to stay on the East Coast.

With the Elder still safe at Citadel, the Prydwen enforced benevolence, the sword and shield of the Wasteland, traveling up and down the coast. As a senior officer, Danse didn’t make it to the ground as often as he preferred. Captains escorted the aspirants down for supply runs, which came with more regularity than the large-scale events that required the attention of paladins and knights. Within the confines of the ship, Danse’s usual weather-beaten skin had taken on a pallid tone. His tactical mind was in use, not his muscle. His training comprised sterile, hypothetical exercises. Classes and lectures, no live fire, no dust and grit beneath the aspirants’ boots. He hoped and prayed that these cadets didn’t soil their britches when faced with the harsh reality of combat. There were only so many ways to explain the horror and gore that came without putting something, or someone, down.

Unrest brewed within. Occasionally, doldrums on the Prydwen made Danse second guess his choices. Passed over for his star and having declined the Mojave Eldership, he tried to make his life as full as possible. He and Kells worked together to keep a tight ship, no time wasted and leaves heavily regulated. With a firm hand, he did the best he could to make those under his wings worthy of their rank. He’d gone against guidelines for John so long that guilt manifested as a dogged dictatorship. The cheekiest of soldiers referred to him and Kells’ as ‘ _The Gestapo_.’ Never to their faces, but word still traveled. Well, those who wished for discipline free life were welcome strip their uniform and go rub elbows with the filth of the Wastes.

Gross chaos reigned below. Scribes gathered news from all over the nation, compiling the image of a variable landscape rooted in dishonor, infighting, and banditry. The Commonwealth Minutemen’s General, Joe Becker, had died. They had appointed no replacement. In the wake of his passing, his men and woman turned on one another, true proof that the Wastes turned out nothing but liars and fodder. Without a trained, regimented leader at their helm, the Minutemen were sure to fold within years. Dedicated pockets would remain – the Outcasts, occasional Enclave posts, and Children of Atom hubs proved that steadfast units always dug in their heels – but the era of the Commonwealth Army was over. Better they go back to their crops and their caravans, supporting the masses until Brotherhood salvation took root in the region.

After a few more rounds, Danse called a halt. He released the aspirants for the showers and their mess hour in the cantina. While the others headed off red and winded, Arthur remained for another set of roundhouse kicks. “Aspirant Maxson,” Danse called. “You’re relieved.”

“Balance is off,” Arthur huffed, flicking hair from his eyes. “I can do better.”

“I’m certain that’s true. But for now, you are relieved, Aspirant.”

Arthur hesitated, then let his leg drop. He nodded, gave a crisp turn, and headed to the showers.

Drawing a lengthy breath, Danse rubbed the back of his neck. Perfection wasn’t expected at this point of Arthur’s training, but if pushed to be patient, the boy became combative, insisting that the bar be raised. Truthfully, Arthur had the drive and raw strength to excel, but that left his classmates at a disadvantage that Arthur would not tolerate. Repeatedly, he’d fight other aspirants, testing them, and would win through brute strength and ruthless cunning, causing a rift in the group. Any other cadet would receive a swift reprimand from an overseeing officer, but it was ethically hard to knock a Maxson down a peg. Maintaining the Maxson line was vital, and with the Eldership having been so precarious, the Brotherhood required the weight of a sturdy figurehead to guide them. Still, the boy couldn’t grow to think himself invincible. As a leader, that would steer him to make sport of others’ lives. Danse had time, though. Arthur was still a child. Thank goodness he had years to work at culling the youth’s poor traits while fostering the favorable ones.

Considering Kells’ announcement, Danse made his way down a set of steel stairs, intending to swing by Teagan’s for tomorrow’s assignment. A blur of rust brown and orange flew from a connecting corridor to bar his way. Scribe Haylen stood firm in his path, eyes wide and breathing heavy. “A notice was sent to Proctor Quinlan,” she said between gasps. “I wanted you to know before the information became public.” 

When the time came to select a profession, Haylen had chosen medicine, a noble yet humble calling. Specific vocation or not, all scribes remained in the Order of the Quill’s periphery, informed of what went on in the Wastes. Danse frowned and swung his head, checking for eavesdroppers. The halls and bunks were empty, many using personal time at this hour. “Continue,” he said.

“It’s about Cutler. His name came up an exposé from the Eastern Commonwealth. Some smear piece featuring your... well… your John.”

Danse’s stomach sank, preempting a blow. Haylen was the only person other than John who knew of the relationship he’d had with Mike Cutler. He swallowed down a dry throat. “What… um, what did it say?”

“It told the story of you and John – I recognized it – only… a follow-up with the journalist revealed he gave Cutler’s name instead of yours.” Haylen’s mouth tightened before adding, “He’s been posthumously stricken from the Codex for misconduct. All references to him or his service, deleted. I’m sorry, Danse.”

A steel box slammed shut around Danse’s heart. Cutler – removed from Brotherhood records in a snap. The ship seemed to rotate, threatening to pitch him sideways. His hand shot out to stabilize himself against a bulkhead. “It’s lies,” he spat as a chill crept through him.

Haylen shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The Order made their choice on the matter. The deed is done.”

Sound went fuzzy and Danse’s vision tunneled. He broke past Haylen and blindly charged down another set of stairs. She pursued, footsteps trailing him through clusters of soldiers chatting or wiping down workstations for the night.Danse barged in on a group gambling around a folding table on the lowest deck. They scattered at the sight of an officer, pocketing cards and caps, leaving behind bottles and half-smoked cigarettes.Danse plucked up a bottle of Vodka and lifted it to his lips, grip tightening as thought tumbled.Haylen’s footfalls came to a stop behind him.

John McDonough – the phantom that continued to haunt him. The man wasted no time in betraying Danse’s confidence, and now the Order had cancelled out a dedicated soldier’s life. Without evidence in the Codex, Cutler may have never existed, Danse’s memory of him all that remained. Of all the ways John could have gotten even with Danse, this was a low blow he hadn’t thought the man capable of taking. Though John was rash and stubborn, he wasn’t petty. But rejection could have changed him, left him spitting with hate and rife with vengeance. At the end of it all, John was still a dirty Wastelander with no pride, no duty, and no honor.

The bottle of Vodka hovered. Danse considered the drink, the grim idea of diving in headfirst and never emerging quite tempting. He’d watched plenty of exemplary men and women lose to Bacchus that way, becoming withdrawn and incapable under their addictions. _No_ , Danse decided. He wouldn’t give John the satisfaction of destroying him in that manner.

Emotions flared like fireworks. Knocked off-kilter, Danse threw the bottle against one of the support columns. The bottle shattered, and glass particles soared in all directions. A bevy of alarmed voices sounded out. “Danse,” Haylen said in a soothing tone, placing a retraining hand on his arm. “Please don’t break the ship. We need it to live.”

A desperate need for solitude, for time to let dark thoughts percolate, called to Danse. He gulped, vision red around the edges. “Tell, no one,” he commanded Haylen.

“Of course, Sir,” she affirmed with a crisp nod. “Gone from memory.”

He turned on his heel and headed away. After a step, he paused and twisted around. “Wait… Haylen… thank you.”

“My honor, Sir,” she said, adding a salute.

Danse made a fast trek towards his quarters and shut the door, refraining from slamming it. Turmoil roiling in his guts, he sat uneasily on his thinly padded bed. The hum of the ship often helped in drifting to sleep, but a war raged inside, anger and betrayal burning bright. There would be no respite tonight. He longed for a syringe from John’s Calmex supply, something to shut his brain off and allow him to relax. Had John made an addict of him as well as a fool? A good solider should not need to rely on chems. That was for weaker men.

He kicked off his boots and lay down on his side. He hated John and regretted ever meeting him. It had been a crude mistake visiting that bar in Alexandria, and now he – and Cutler – paid the price for that decision. What a selfish, stupid thing to do. John hadn’t been worth the risk, and every moment they’d spent together was further proof that Danse wasn’t worthy of a Star or, forbid, holding an Eldership position. Such a dense and rash idiot, he could only be trusted to shoot first and leave questioning to the scribes. 

Danse curled up, fists painfully clenched. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he buried them under rage. This was all John’s fault, Siren that he was, tempting Danse down a path that led to deceit and destruction.

If John had any dignity left, he should end his life over what he’d done. It was the least he could do.


	2. Please Stand By

HAYLEN

Goodneighbor, MA

February 11th, 2289

The Old State House apartment wasn’t fancy. Worn-out furniture and patchy rugs sat atop tarnished wood flooring. Sparsely decorated, save for a couple plastic toys left in the corners, the room was standard but safe. Boarded windows blocked light during the day and discouraged intrepid snipers during the night. Those in the Commonwealth, no matter their allegiance, were slow to embrace change. Goodneighbor was unlike any other settlement in the area, and not in the seedy way it had been when Haylen first visited the year prior, racing in for help having found out Danse was a synth. The town stood as the trading crossroads of the region, with children running about and clear, if grimy, streets. It reminded her of Rivet City in its heyday – a haven nestled amongst pure chaos.

Speaking of – it was late, and time to go.

Haylen shifted around on the bed and snaked out of the blanket. Bare feet padding the floor, she collected the layers of her civvy outfit.

“Britt,” said a muffled voice. “Come back.”

Stepping into her pants, Haylen shook her head. “I have to report in the morning.”

“Call in sick.”

“That’s not how it works,” she said with a half-laugh half-grunt. “You want a search party at the gates?”

MacCready levered himself up on his elbows, the blanket slipping down to expose his scrawny chest. “We could take ‘em.”

Fastening her shirt, she sat down on the bed and ruffled his hair. “Not that I doubt the power of your masculine ego,” said Haylen, “but this might not be the best time to draw attention to Goodneighbor.” MacCready flopped back and rolled over, grumbling into his pillow. She set to braiding her hair and twisting it into a tidy knot at the back of her head.

Down one leg, the former sniper’s tree climbing days were over. Diamond City never appointed another leader, and MacCready now stood as a powerful entity – the mayor of Boston with the Minutemen on his side. Not New Boston, Post Boston, or MacCreadyville. The name, the real name, back on track, though some were slow to adopt it. He was overseeing a cleanup of the CIT ruins, saying that, ‘We broke it – we might as well buy it’. The picture he painted of the future was intriguing, a world edging back toward what it had been back when vehicles filled the roads and people wore clean clothes. No one alive would live to see its completion, but that wasn’t the point. People needed something to believe in, something to strive towards. It gave the population proud work to do and supplied much needed hope.

Their pairing hadn’t been intentional. Personal business dragged Haylen in and out of town, and they’d struck up a mutual affinity. She’d found herself smitten watching RJ interact with his son, Duncan. MacCready gave off a humbler type of male energy than what she found in the Brotherhood’s membership. Months later, here they were, in an easy, well-defined relationship.

RJ left an open invite for Haylen to bring her child to Goodneighbor. She knew her daughter would be safe here, but the holdup wasn’t about safety – it was about extraction. It was no simple task to smuggle a 13-year-old squire from the Citadel under the eyes of her tutors. The Brotherhood of Steel had lured Haylen in with shiny promises and swallowed her whole. It now stood broken, members battered and cowed into enforcers of Arthur Maxson’s regime. The towering figure of _Liberty Prime_ dominated the airport, a warning to anyone that dared oppose him.

But there was little heart in holding the Commonwealth. The battle against the Institute had concluded without Brotherhood involvement. No promise of glory remained, just drudgery as they waited for Maxson to play chess with the region. In addition, rumors swirled through the ranks – Paladin Danse had been sighted near Diamond City. Was it an apparition? A reproduction of the old unit? Scribes scrambled for answers. Knowing the truth, Haylen collected speculation with wry amusement.

One thing was certain – Maxson was furious at the dissent, lies and defiance swimming right under his nose. Wisely, Paladin Nate Sterling, who’d given the false report of M7-97’s death, went missing and had yet to resurface. From MacCready, Haylen heard he’d gone West to match wits with an overlord… no, wait… _overboss_ , who oversaw a sizeable community that been pillaging Minutemen settlements. The attempted shakedowns were for supplies instead of straight-out murder. Odd behavior for raiders. If Danse wasn’t in hiding, this would have been an assignment for the General, but since returning from the Midwest alone, Danse had been… Honestly, he hadn’t been well.

Support for him had drawn Haylen repeatedly to Goodneighbor. He’d been hit hard when Piper printed an article about John’s transition and death, concluding his life story. The journalist then set to work on the draft of the constitution he’d left behind. Haylen and MacCready helped where they could, but neither of them knew much about tariffs, bills, or measures. Danse hadn’t had the heart to join them. The job was hard, rooting through thousands of pages of John’s essays, trying to arrange them in some semblance of order. Piper called them ‘Mentat-derived idea vomit’ and tottered on giving up.

A forceful knock at the door made both Haylen and MacCready jump. “Hey, Boss,” called Fahrenheit.

MacCready and Haylen shared a glance. Something had to be dire for her to chance interrupting the mayor while he was behind closed doors with his girlfriend. “Yeah?” MacCready responded.

“He’s back in the Den. You want me to pull him out?”

“Goddamn – gosh darn it. No, I’ll go!” MacCready shouted. He ripped the sheet off and swung his leg to the ground.

Haylen was almost ready. “We’ll go,” she corrected, and helped him dress.

They left Fahrenheit in the Old State House with Duncan. The mayor was safe enough in his own town, especially with his sidearm on display. Crutches under his arms, MacCready banged out the back door of the State House and into the farmers’ marketplace. It was winter, and snow heaped in piles, leaving the streets clear as fresh flakes dotted the air. The string lights above made the night look particularly pretty, even if the air was biting and dry. Empty stalls waited for their vendors to return to next day with seasonal fare of hides, warm clothing, and canned goods. As MacCready tried to keep his crutches from catching on uneven stonework, watchmen on guard tipped their hats and addressed him as ‘Boss’ or ‘Mac’.

In the alley beside the Memory Den, two teenagers lingered under the eaves. “What’s wrong with you?” MacCready barked. “Go home. It’s past curfew.” Rules against loitering stood in effect for youths, part of Goodneighbor’s turnaround plan, resulting in fewer drug deals and kidnappings.

Ducking their heads in guilt, the kids chorused, “Yes, Sir,” and made for the Rexford Apartments. Again, Haylen marveled at the change in tone Goodneighbor had adopted.

Opening the door to the Memory Den, they nearly bumped headfirst into Amari. She looked frazzled and bushed with dark smudges under her eyes and her hair a mess. “I cannot keep working at this pace if I also have to manage the frequency of his visits,” she spouted, eyes boring into MacCready. “Honestly, he’s worse than Kent.”

“I’ll get him,” MacCready assured, hobbling past her. A series of Memory Pods sat inside the plush accommodations of the lounge, their thick ropes of cable snaking along the floor in complicated tangles. Red fabric and dim lighting gave it the look of a brothel Haylen had raided once as a cadet in the Capital. People were people wherever you went, and people had needs. That night, a single pod stood occupied, its system humming, the plexiglass lid down. Beside that pod, the proprietor, Irma, stood in her dressing gown, hair twisted up in curlers. “Irma, pop it open,” MacCready ordered.

Irma looked flustered. She swallowed and pleaded, “Mr. Mayor, I must insist… interrupting the progress repeatedly will –”

“Irma, please,” Haylen said.

After a hesitation, Irma stepped behind the pod and pulled a cord from the controls. Instantly, the hum cut out and, with a hiss, the pod cracked open. As the lid lifted, MacCready handed his crutches to Hayen and hoisted himself up to sit on the tall side-rail. Hands over his head, holding onto the glass shell for support, he leaned inside. “Hey, uh, Danse? Buddy? Can you hear me?”

On his back, Danse blinked at the blank screen above his head, tears leaking past the corners of his eyes. Those orbs could have been glass marbles. Nothing stirred in them, and MacCready’s question went unanswered. He wasn’t drunk or unkempt, but his despair was clear. It was as if something had shattered inside of him, the pieces still dangerously sharp. His holotags – the ones John wore for so long – dangled from his fingers like a rosary. 

Haylen’s heart screamed for him. Her visits to Goodneighbor were meant to benefit him, a familiar face in trying times, but her stalwart commanding officer had vanished. This was a smaller man, one racked with doubt, fear, and a quiet resignation to misery. Once Nate left for the west, Danse traded Sanctuary for Goodneighbor. Not a place that turned its back on the downtrodden, the town had been his refuge for a while now, allowing him to live on the mayoral dime while Amari dealt with her task. At first, Danse tried to help where he could, aiding in Boston’s rebirth. But the chance of a second sighting would be divisive, so he hid himself.

It was common knowledge that synths freed from the Institute happily wore Minutemen uniforms or farmed the crops sitting in storage at the airport. Many soldiers witnessed the Commonwealth’s humble coexistence and questioned their indoctrination. Should Danse step from the shadows, enough of his former comrades would defend him, causing a calamity. With the Brotherhood currently volatile, any excuse for mutiny could crack the fragile faction in two.

MacCready shot Haylen a worried glance, and she took over. “Danse? Sir?” she asked, coming near. “It’s Haylen.” Her fingers brushed his wrist.

Danse closed his eyes for several heartbeats and drew a long inhale. His gaze focused. “Haylen? MacCready?” Spots of color turned his pale cheeks pink. “I’m… I’m sorry, I was… I needed to –”

“Hey, it’s fine,” MacCready stated. “I’ve been through this, too. But it’s time to be done for a while.” He clapped Danse on the arm and scooted off the pod, getting his crutches under him. Haylen had forgotten he was a widower and, for a moment, felt guilty about it.

Danse didn’t nod or agree, but he did exit the pod. Instead of the front door, he slowly made for Amari’s sub-level office. Haylen waved at MacCready to give them space. He sent her a thumbs-up as Amari gave him an earful and Irma went back to bed.

At the foot of the basement stairs, Danse leaned against the doorway, peering in. Haylen joined him, her back touching the opposite side of the cramped, wood-lined corridor. Amari owned a standard series of medical equipment and technological odds and ends. A work-light tower sat in one corner, casting long shadows. In the center of the room sat a single Memory Pod. A deactivated synth lay inside, its hazel eyes fixed on a screen that projected a temporary title card reading, _Please Stand By_. An eye-bot hovered above the contraption, softly bobbing up and down. Its optic sensor swung in Danse’s direction, paused, then rotated back to keep its watch over the Pod.

“I fear that I’m being unreasonable,” Danse uttered, staring into the room. “I spent what I perceived as my entire adult life in fear of what technology could do to humanity. Now, it is my chief reliance.” He rubbed a hand over his tired face and shook his head. “I am a terrible person for reasons that have nothing to do with being a synth. I just… Why couldn’t I have just said _yes_ when he asked me? That’s the question I can’t escape. He wanted to marry me in Hartford, and I pushed him away. I could have changed. Could have become a farmer or a merchant. Could have led the Minutemen then and spared the Commonwealth so many difficulties.” He looked down at the holotags still in his hand. “Twelve years knowing him. Half of them lost for no good reason. I wasn’t even there when he died. He was alone for all of it. I want to hate Arcade, hate the Enclave, but mostly, I just hate myself.”

Danse looked older. Fresh lines creased around his eyes and mouth, his skin sallow and unhealthy. Haylen reached for his hand and clasped it. “Danse… there wasn’t anything you could do.”

He squeezed her hand, holding on for dear life. “My mind is screaming that this is wrong, an abuse of technology,” he said. “But my heart… what about my heart? I want Deacon to be here, telling me that this will work, that it will be him in there and not just some sick Enclave trickery. I want Valentine to assure me he’ll feel the same as he always did, that he’ll believe that he’s real. I want them to convince me that this is the right decision. But I failed them both, and now they can’t tell me anything.”

Haylen turned her face and cringed. It was terrible timing for Nate to be so far away. If everything fell apart, he’d be the most capable of keeping Danse from eating a bullet. “Danse, if something goes wrong… are you prepared? Honestly? Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t be there.”

Her suggestion sat in heavy silence. Danse pulled his hand away. “I am aware of the risks involved,” he said in a bitter tone, straightening his spine. His gaze drifted to the synth in the Pod once more. “Should something go wrong, I… I’ll put it down.” At his words, the eyebot shuddered and bobbed, beeping as if in disagreement.

Someone thumped down the stairs behind them. “No way,” MacCready said, approaching one slow step at a time. “You’re not gonna drag that burden around.” He came to a stop and looked Danse square in the eye. “If we do this and it’s not really him… I want you to leave. I’ll make sure it gets deactivated or… stop it… but, I don’t want you there when – _if_ – that happens.”

Danse swallowed and looked back at the Pod.

Haylen had served at his side long enough to know that waiting and worrying brought out the worst in him, burying people in his mind before they were dead. A soldier’s unease. Danse was at his best while working. “Take the next few days to oversee the market stock,” she suggested. “Stop by the school and give examples of extraneous wording. Shovel snow if you need to. Just stay busy.”

“You won’t be here?” he asked, thick brows knitting.

Guilt shot through her. “I wish I could. There’s a new scientist at the airport, and I –”

“Yes. Of course. You have duties.” A crisp nod, eyes going vacant again. “I understand.”

She was certain he did. What precarious times they balanced on. There would come a day, sooner rather than later, when she’d have to leave the Brotherhood. But how?

After a sigh, she darted in to give Danse a quick hug before he could protest. She raced up the stairs, stopping long enough to whisper, “Watch him like a radfalcon,” in MacCready’s ear.

“I’ve got the people for that,” he assured. “You can count on me.”

“The whole Commonwealth can count on you, love.” She gave him a peck on the cheek.

Leaving the warmth of the Den and her companions behind, her breath puffed as she headed back into the cold arms of the Brotherhood and the icy grip it had on her. Change was on its way. Would the resurrection of John McDonough herald it? Or would its failure turn Danse into a broken bridge between the old ways and the new?

She’d have her answer soon enough.


	3. Hello, Again

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

February 15th, 2289

Sickening vertigo snapped John awake. He felt like he was tumbling backwards, falling through space. His arms shot out to stabilize himself, palms hitting glass. Radiant heat from his fingertips caused the glass to fog slightly where his skin touched it.

Something was wrong.

His fingertips…

His fingertips.

The smooth skin of his hands shocked him. Besides not knowing where he was, he also wondered _when_ he was. Was this a dream? Nostalgia? Lately, his grasp on reality hadn’t been kind.

With the force of a thunderclap, it all came rushing back. Arcade. The Enclave. His own body weeping radiation from every crevice. Deep-seated horror and resignation sat in his chest like rocks. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what had happened.

The crackle and fizz of a vacuum tube losing power made him look up. A monitor before his face fizzled with snow before fading to black. His hands dropped to plush padded armrests. He’d sat in enough claustrophobic Memory Pods to recognize the overstuffed cushioning beneath him. Still tilted at an uncomfortable angle, he looked out through the glass hood encasing him. In Amari’s lab were Amari herself, Doctor Carrington from the Railroad, MacCready, and Danse, who lingered near the doorway, looking tense.

The pod’s seal cracked, and the lid slowly opened. Nausea tickled the back of John’s throat, and he scrambled out. His legs were weak and wobbly, and he fell to his knees, loose hair cascading into his face. He scooped it back and sucked air through his nose. His nose. Yeah. He could see the tip as he stared at the floor and tried to keep from being sick. Faded trousers covered his legs and he wore scuffed shoes on his feet. An inherent wrongness flushed through him. This was wrong. _He_ was wrong.

A series of beeps made him look up. A familiar, beat-up eyebot hovered near a back wall, its chassis rotating side-to-side like a dog cocking its head. John gaped at it, the timeline trickling back into place.

“John?” MacCready asked. “Do you know where you are?”

Amari’s lab. And if he was in Amari’s lab with a Railroad agent as an onlooker –

“I’m in a goddamned synth body,” John answered. His voice was his own, without the dry grate and smoker’s rasp. He forced himself to his feet, the hands on his knees still alien.

No one spoke. After a moment, Amari stated, “Well, he’s certainly astute.”

“Full and immediate cognitive awareness. Glorious,” Carrington said, sounding breathless with satisfaction. He stepped forward and flashed a penlight at John’s face. “You know, I’m most proud of your eyes,” he said, voice brimming with pride. “The hazel shade is the most difficult to reproduce. You’re lucky to have been such a prolific man when you were alive. Such a wealth of photographs to work from, courtesy of Miss Wright.”

John flinched away from the light. All he caught was, ‘When you were alive’. A memory surfaced of Piper stopping him one night in Diamond City, taking a dozen candid pictures of him. He thought harder, trying to piece reality back together. The suffering and terror of confinement bubbled to the surface. Arcade. He’d had some plan. John had no recollection of what came after.

He glanced at Danse, who said nothing and shrank further into the hall. “Dan?” he asked. “Am I dead?” Danse’s mouth opened and closed again and his body went taunt. He didn’t answer. A crushing weight threatened to shove John back to the floor. “ _Am I dead_?” he shouted, fear starting to gnaw at his insides.

Danse looked drawn, a fraction of his former self. “Yes,” he answered in a whisper.

Backing up, John bumped against the Pod. “Fucking Christ,” he hissed, and tracked everyone present with a seething glare. “What the hell did you all do?” His chest constricted and ice water rushed through his artificial veins. John had seen some shit in his day – bloody brains smeared on pavement, the bodies of people who’d crossed Marowski, mutants feasting on folks, ghouls slashed up by farmers who’d thought them feral. He’d stood with Danse in the room where the Institute played God, weaving synths together one layer at a time. But none of that compared to the absolute revulsion he felt now.

Like he always did when things got rough, he ran. He barreled past Danse, who pressed to a wall and let him pass, and tore up the stairs to the Den. MacCready shouted his name, but no one chased. Pulling to the left, he made his way to the dressing room left over from the Den’s cabaret days, and yanked the frayed curtain closed. A line of ornate chairs paired with vanities and foggy mirrors lined one wall. Summoning strength, John looked into one of those mirrors. He gaped at his reflection.

The mirror was a portal to the past. Beads of cold sweat gleamed on his forehead. Wavy blonde hair fell to his shoulders, curling at the ends. He felt his stately face; tracing a finger down his patrician nose, brushing over flushed cheeks, even catching his full lower lip and tugging it slightly down. His hazel eyes looked dark green in the dim lighting of the Den. It was him. _Really_ him. He’d expected to see some stranger, not a replica of his human visage. After all he’d done to escape his past, he was right back in the same form. 

His examination drifted downwards. A button-up shirt covered his torso. He tore it open to inspect his new body. “Goddamn,” John breathed. Smooth, fresh skin met his eyes. No scars or marks, just a blank canvas. The build was close to his old one, but there were differences. He stood a tad taller, and broader in the shoulders and thighs.

Disorientation made the floor shift under John’s feet, and he put a hand on the mirror to brace himself. “Hello, again, you bastard,” he told his reflection. Jesus, he even _sounded_ like himself. He lifted his hand, leaving fingerprint smudges on the mirror’s surface, foreign arches and whorls from the synth whose body he wore.

Never in his life had he been so disgusted to see himself. John had already gone through two bodies. He had no need for a third. This wasn’t his. This belonged to someone else. Had the synth given consent? Had it been forced, coerced, or falsely promised? That Danse had been complicit in this betrayal hurt beyond words. All the injustice and lies in the world built to a crescendo, and John put a fist throughthe mirror’s reflection.Pain sliced at his knuckles,and chips of silvered glass fell to the ground.

He stood trembling, panting and staring at the floor, aching fist knotted at his side. When he looked up, he saw Danse’s fractured reflection in the blood-smeared mirror standing beside him. “John…” Danse started, reaching for him.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” John snarled, whirling around and batting Danse’s hand away. “Who was this guy? What happened to him?” he spouted, anger making his skin hot. A tempest of emotion raged inside. “You gave this thing my face. You didn’t just dump my consciousness into it. You took the time to give it my face!”

His strong, valiant Danse had shining, sad eyes. “I… had to see you again. The way I remembered you.” 

“How did they match my voice?”

“The recording on the Bravo terminal.”

Warm, salty human tears – not glowing beads of radiation – rolled down John’s face. His goodbye letter on the terminal at Listening Post Bravo. That was private, meant only for Danse, not be shared before a scientific panel figuring how best to duplicate it. “You’re a real, goddamn piece of work,” he choked out. “That was mine. _Ours_. Not for public consumption.” He took a ragged breath and gestured at himself. “This body… This was someone! Did you delete the memories of some sorry synth refuge? Was he a farmer? Was he a courser? Who was he?”

Danse drew a stabilizing breath. “There was an Institute maintenance synth who escaped in the purge during the battle. Seems like he’d mistakenly asked Gunners for help before a Minutemen patrol found him by the side of a road, mentally injured beyond repair. This synth… he only knew the terror of living in the Institute. You could give this body a better life.” Danse’s hands opened and hovered, as if begging John for an embrace yet fearful of pushing too far. “I… can’t exist without you. I don’t know any other life. I can’t imagine one without you in it. I know this isn’t… _ideal_ … but it’s all I could do.”

For a moment, they stared at each other. John gulped his tears away and dropped his gaze. His shirt was still open. He felt a wash of embarrassment, considering it a breach of privacy to the synth he wore. For modesty’s sake, he fumbled to do a few buttons. “Do you remember Far Harbor?” he asked, looking up.

Danse had lowered his arms. “Yes. Quite well.”

“Wearing a human face is a luxury. Do you know how many ghouls would be shooting each other in the streets for the chance to look normal again? That’d be right fuckin’ anarchy. Turn all synths into marks. There’ll be a black market for bodies.” Revulsion churned through him. “Fuck, Dan. How long was I gone? Is this what we do now? This guy – this synth – he didn’t consent to this.”

Danse pinched at his brow, as if warding off a headache. “Carrington insisted we couldn’t alter a synth’s build to a ghoul’s. Not a convincing one, anyway. I made the best choice that I could for you.”

Bitterness coated John's tongue. “For me? You did this _for me_?”

Declining an immediate answer, Danse bent to rummage through a few of the vanity drawers. He obtained a roll of bandages and a tube of ointment. He rested against the vanity’s desktop and reached for John’s injured hand. With reluctance, John gave it to him. “Many things have escalated since you’ve been… gone,” Danse said, carefully dabbing salve over John’s split knuckles. “The Commonwealth needs you.” He paused, then added, “As do I.”

When Danse wrapped his hand, John felt numb to the touch. Called back for a higher purpose, an encore? Seemed like there’d be no clocking out for him, just an endless stream of work. This was a good time for a cigarette but, oddly, the craving was absent. A horrible flash forward painted the picture of spending the rest of his unnatural life devoid of feeling, existing but not, with a sucking black hole in his heart.

Finally and blissfully done, Danse let go of him. John snapped his hand to his side. Danse sighed and slipped his hand into a pocket. “There’s something you should hear in private. Kent’s holo-player is still in the radio room.” He pulled out a holotape and handed it over. “Listen to it. I think you’ll understand why I had to do what I did.”

John took the tape and turned it over in his hands. The label read, _Final Message._ He stood in silence for a time, clutching the tape and feeling conflicted. Each breath was accompanied by shame, as if he’d taken this poor synth’s life himself. Something crawled under his skin, whispering that he didn’t deserve to be here. And he wasn’t. A series of code told him how to respond as John McDonough and mimic that persona. “I ain’t real,” John muttered.

“Neither am I,” said Danse, and went back downstairs.


	4. Just Fall

DANSE

Goodneighbor, MA

February 15th, 2289

The skies above Goodneighbor were clear, but the air bitterly cold. In a balance between blending in and keeping distance, Danse had his back to a wall, a vendor selling meat to one side, another selling winter-tough local plants. Under a wrapped cap that he hated, Danse’s road googles fogged. He pushed them to his forehead and puffed warm breath over cupped hands. He wore a patched wool coat, a far cry in status from his Minutemen jacket. He resembled a farmer, blending in with those that crowded the afternoon marketplace on either side of him, shouting of their wares and bartering with clientele. Snow drifts blocked the alleys, and the town smelled of wet brick instead of garbage. Marketplace hubbub droned on, ignoring him.

Amari’s lab had evacuated, giving John space to acclimate and listen to the tape, his own goodbyes, in private. Danse had taken to the streets for fresh air. MacCready went back to the Old State House and Carrington left for good, taking his Railroad expertise with him. With the Institute gone, the Railroad didn’t have much to do these days. Carrington, having dealt with Deacon’s appearances over the years, was an expert on plastic surgery. He’d made John look like John. Amari was still in the Den doing routine maintenance on the Pods. It had been Amari who oversaw the digital downloads, tracking individual threads of memory, making sure they didn’t overlap or shift out of sequence. All of it encompassed exhaustive work that Danse still didn’t understand.

A creeping sensation made him shiver. He imagined eyes raking over him and quickly tugged the goggles back down. Given how Maxson had tried to sway Diamond City’s former mayor, Danse remained cautious of a Brotherhood mole infiltrating Goodneighbor. Though unlikely out of widespread fidelity to MacCready and respect for the Minutemen, Danse wasn’t one to take chances. He was still the General and tracking Brotherhood activity in the Commonwealth was paramount. His former colleges had become enemies of the region, prowling guard dogs waiting for the signal to attack. He oversaw Minuteman activity at the Castle, close enough to both the airport and Goodneighbor. The airport needed constant observation, and with John… _under construction_... at Goodneighbor, Danse constantly moved between the two locations. 

The extremes he’d gone to over the previous months were draining, hiding his face, traveling by night in the company of caravans, sticking to pseudonyms, and being stowed away by his friends. It made him feel like a helpless burden. He'd been half-tempted to march up to the Boston Airport and cast aside the deceptions. Only faith and hope kept him from doing something so foolish.

After months of strain and apprehension, the day had finally come. Though the methods left him uneasy, Danse had pounced at the opportunity to get John back. How could he not? The echoes of John’s consciousness, spun onto holodrives, had been Arcade’s last act of contrition. Unwelcome grateful feelings sent shudders down Danse’s spine. Make no mistake, the Enclave haunted Danse just as much as the Institute, but their joint technology gave John, and him, fresh lives to live. Without the Enclave’s interference, John would have turned feral by now or dissolved into radioactive sludge. 

Too often, Danse chastised himself for being a selfish fool. This wasn’t John. Not really. Danse had callously agreed to replicate John’s soul with software. Knowing John as he had, Danse hadn’t expected immediate acceptance. Hell, some days even he had trouble dealing with his own identity as a synth. _Time_ , he convinced himself. _John just needs time to adapt._ After that, they’d be the same, united as men, lovers, and synthetic people.

Someone shouted. Danse swung his head and saw Irma under the Memory Den’s marquee, her skirts swishing. She craned her head this way and that, searching the streets. “Saul!” she screamed, one of Danse’s monikers. He felt a punch deep in his gut and started running. Several triggermen on patrol rushed in Irma’s direction, but Danse got there first and waved them away. “I’ve got this!” he assured. “Commonwealth matters.” Careful to not step on a superiors’ toes – either John or Vic had taught them that – they stopped and went back to their posts.

“The lab,” Irma said as he raced past, as if he hadn’t known. He yanked the goggles down to swing at his neck and pushed the cap back. The Den’s interior was dim compared to the outdoors, and Danse blinked to adjust as he made his way to the back. Amari stood at the bottom of the stairs yelling over a commotion of thumps and crashing. Danse veered around the corner to find John taking a heavy pipe wrench to the hood of the Memory Pod he’d been conceived in. Cracks webbed the surface. Tools and broken bits of equipment – microscopes, beakers, bone cutters – littered the floor.

Danse shot forward and caught John’s wrist on another swing. They tussled for control. John drove into him and shoved hard. Unprepared for the disparity of strength in John’s new body, Danse skidded back. This wasn’t the scrawny man he’d known, though the ferocity in John’s eyes was familiar. “John!” he grunted, still straining for control of the wrench. “What are you doing?”

John put a foot on Danse’s stomach and broke them apart, twisting the wrench away. “How goddamn dare you! You heard that tape!” he snarled. “It was over! I was done!” He stalked to the back to the lab and loomed over the trio of holodrives containing his memories. “This is what a human life boils down to? Three pieces of plastic?” John brought the steel jaw of the hammer down, over and over, pummeling the drives to ruin.

“John, no!” Danse gasped. Horror trickled through him like water. What if something went wrong? A degradation in the upload? There was no fallback.

“I do not get to be immortal!” John roared, eyes packed with fury. “I will not get dumped into body after body for the rest of eternity! Nobody asked if I wanted this!”

Danse felt small, pressure pushing him into a condensed ball. “No one could,” he whispered. “I had to make a choice for you.”

“You didn’t have to do anything!” John thundered. He paced back and forth, free hand twitching, the other white-knuckling the wrench. Swallowing over and over, he muttered, “I gotta get out of this fucking room.”

“To go where?” Danse asked, his skin crawling with worry.

“That ain’t your business.” John’s stare crackled with ice. “Or am I your Creature, Frankenstein? You expect me to do something awful?”

 _Yes_ , Danse longed to scream amid a pang of hurt. John had already destroyed his own backup system. Even in his turmoil, Danse marveled at John with wonder and approval. Carrington did a fantastic job of recreating him, right down to the hateful glare John bore into Danse. Trust would be key to John coming around, and Danse had to prove himself worthy of it. “I… expect that you continue to be you,” Danse said with cautious restraint. “Of course you can go.” He stepped aside.

John didn’t hesitate. The wrench clanged as it hit the ground and John swept past Danse without looking up. His footsteps pounded up the stairs. Danse released a heavy sigh and cast a longing glance at the shattered holodrives. From behind, Amari poked his shoulder. “If he damaged anything of mine beyond repair,” she warned, “your Minutemen are covering it.”

Readjusting his disguise, Danse suspected that the only thing damaged beyond repair might be John. Shaken and aimless – he wasn’t about to retreat to the Castle – Danse’s feet carried him to The Third Rail. His daft subconscious was leading him to drink, to lean on an old crutch he’d fought to abolish. The taste and burn of hard liquor called to him, promising to drown out racing thoughts.

He hovered at the base of the stairs, gripping the handrail hard enough to bruise. Across the bar, he spotted Fahrenheit on guard before the VIP entrance. He headed her direction, and she raised a brow as he passed into the exclusive section. Pushing the door open, he found MacCready seated by himself at a round meeting table surrounded by chairs of assorted designs. The furniture, recent additions to the cozy room, were for entertaining visiting dignitaries that MacCready didn’t want near his son at the State House.

The young mayor’s fists cradled his cheeks, smushing his face as he stared down at rough-sketched blueprints. Out of his scavenged Gunner gear, MacCready often sported an open vest over a t-shirt, the pant leg of his missing limb pinned up. His blonde hair was unkempt as if he constantly ran his hands through it. A bottle of beer sat opened but full on the table. Blue eyes flicked up to Danse. “How’s it going down there? Heard there was a commotion.”

“It’s… fine,” Danse lied. “There’s a bit of resistance. I’m sure that’s normal.”

MacCready frowned. “And you left him alone?”

“Well, yes. I had to show that I –”

“That was a dumb move.”

Danse paused, heat building along his ears and the back of his neck. “Excuse me?”

“ _Dumb_ ,” MacCready repeated, dropping forearms to the table. “John acting rational in a crisis is fifty-fifty. How’d you react when the _I’m a synth_ bomb dropped on you?”

For a long beat, Danse held perfectly still. Then he took off running. MacCready was correct, and Danse was a raging idiot. When he’d read the Brotherhood’s notice on M7-97, he’d believed his life was over and held it in little regard. Before that, he’d been a balanced and dedicated man, whereas John enjoyed a causal relationship with suicide. Leaving John to grapple on his own was a foolish and dangerous decision.

It didn’t take long to convince KLEO and Daisy to help him search. They knew John well enough to guess at the places he’d be. But he kept eluding them, and they spent the rest of the day combing the town. At dusk, snow began to fall as KLEO’s sensors picked up a heat signature atop the Old State House’s clock tower. A weakening in the tower’s internal staircase made the way up hazardous. Once at the principal building’s roof, Danse made the precarious climb up the outside of the Georgian-style tower, using the corner stonework as footholds as he scaled the once-alabaster and copper steeple. Pulling himself over the final ornate balustrade, he found John, lacking proper winter clothing, with hands on the railing and his head tipped back. His curls were lank, and he wore a somber expression.

“Is this where you’ve been all day?” Danse huffed, strained by the ascent. 

Ignoring his question, John peered down the side of the building, past the toes of his shoes, down, down, down to the street below. “It’s stupid how easy it is,” he commented in a flat voice.

“To do… what, exactly?”

“Just fall,” John said in that same blank tone. “Saw a guy drop from here once. His head cracked open like a can’a Cram. Just, _splat_ , done. I used to come up here after. Wonder if it should have been me instead.”

A sick, alarming feeling squirmed in Danse’s belly. He made sure his voice was steady and soothing when he said, “John. Come down.” He took John’s hand and gently tried to tug him away from the ledge.

After a brief hesitation, John complied. Danse wrapped arms around him, John not moving other than to put his head against Danse’s shoulder. “I don’t remember making that tape,” he mumbled into Danse’s coat. “Don’t remember what came after. I guess… that was him, not me. I’m just a ghost.”

Danse’s heart broke. “You’re as authentic as I am.” He drew away slightly and gently tipped John’s face up. The man’s eyes were still empty, snowflakes collecting in his lashes. “Forgive me. Please. I had to see you again like this.”

John forced a rattled breath and pulled away. “I watched you fight for months. Fighting through it and fighting me. I stood by you the whole time while you wanted to fall apart. And I’m supposed to be fine in one day?” He released a shuddering sigh that warned of oncoming sobs and hugged himself tight, looking as if he were trying to disappear.

Watching John aching and in anguish was torture for Danse. “Do you… think you’ll be alright? Eventually?”

For the longest time, they stood in silence, Danse’s heart trying to leap into his throat. “Don’t know,” John finally admitted. “Hope so.”

That John even wanted to get better was a soul-soaring relief. Danse held tight to that thought as he and John scrambled down from the clock tower. Lost in his head, John was unnaturally quiet, letting Danse lead. Back on frosty pavement, Danse lay an arm over John’s shoulder to share warmth, steering him towards their destination. MacCready occupied their old apartment in the State House, but a top floor suite at The Rexford was always available to any member of the Sanctuary crowd. The space was Danse’s home whenever he visited.

After ushering John up to the room, Danse shucked his coat and face coverings before shifting attention. John’s jaw was hard, hands locked into fists. His skin had lost some of its color. “Do you feel sick?” Danse asked. “You look pale.”

“Seems like a construction error,” came John’s snappy response.

Danse’s mouth tensed into a bloodless line. He wasn’t sure if that was a joke. Nerves dancing in his stomach, he took John’s chilly hand and rubbed it. A bit of the tension in John’s fist melted, though his stare remained unfixed. Testing, Danse placed a palm at the back of John’s neck. A microscopic tremor shot through John’s body and he blinked at Danse, gaze gaining some of its sharpness. They stood there for several moments, just looking at each other as an odd sort of energy built between them.

John, here, in his hands. For too long, Danse though this reality a far-fetched idea, the ravings and promises of mad scientists. He’d tried to be prudent and not expect the impossible, but longing wasn’t so easily swayed. There was lightning in his veins, as if experiencing a blessing from who knew what god. If all his hardship served a purpose, it was for this moment. Danse brought John’s mouth to his and reveled in the sensation of plump, human lips. A second shudder wracked John and his hands landed on Danse’s arms. Drowning from yearning and love on pause, Danse ran hands over the supple flesh of John’s body, creasing the clothing. He’d missed the firm tone of a healthy, non-ghoul body. His hands wandered lower.

John recoiled. His arms stiffened, making a space between the two of them. “Stop!” he panted, eyes wide and sounding panicky. “I ain’t gonna let you rape this guy!”

Danse ripped his hands away as if burned. Shame kindled a fire in his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t…” Like an animal, he’d been thoughtless with need and pushed too far. He felt disgusted with himself. And confused. And frustrated. He’d been so wrapped up in getting John back that, fool that he was, he hadn’t taken the time to seriously consider John’s perspective. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” he confessed. “John… we’re to be married. I thought that –” 

“John McDonough’s dead. Plenty times over,” John stated, and looked down at himself. “This… I don’t know who this is.”

Time stopped. Danse had to replay John’s words several times to fully grasp them. John was in a state, Danse understood that. He was upset and angry. Maybe this would all heal with time. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe Danse had destroyed everything by trying to have more. “Do you…” His mouth had gone dry. “Do you want to… not? Not be with me, I mean.”

John ducked his head and frowned at the floor. “I can’t really care about anybody else right now. And I sure as fuck don’t want someone touching me.” He raised his head. “You get why, right?”

It felt like John had punched him. Pain ran through Danse’s limbs, made his fingers and spine tingle. He forced the facsimile of a smile. “Sure, I… Take your time.” There’d been a plan for Amari to monitor John’s progress, ensuring there were no problems. But with the drives destroyed, there was no contingency. This was the last version of John, however he turned out.

John’s face scrunched, as if plotting. “S’not fair if Goodneighbor ghouls see me human. I’ll go to Spectacle Island, that Railroad fallback place. If I start having, ya know… synth problems, they’ve got some agents there. And I’m not gonna do anything destructive. Don’t worry. I know… Well, shit. I know I still have responsibilities. Did Piper finish the Constitution?”

Danse’s heart hurt and his brain felt fuzzy, unable to process. “Um, no,” he uttered, preoccupied. “There were–”

“Hell. Figures.” John halfheartedly kicked at the worn carpet. Of course he would think of his chronically unfinished work.

“During your… _absence_ … our world has become quite complicated,” Danse explained. “Please, don’t go. It’s not safe out there.”

“Fuck, Dan,” John said with a snort. “Nothing’s been safe for a long time.” Raking fingers through his hair, he sighed. “I get why you did this. I do. I just… wish you hadn’t.”

“Will you… will you at least take my coat? It’s cold out.” That wasn’t what Danse meant to say. Not at all.

John picked the garment up and folded it over his arm. “Thanks.” He walked out the door.

Danse sat down on the bed, buried his head in his hands and wept.


	5. The Election of '82

JOHN 

Diamond City, MA

November 7th, 2282

The polls had closed, and the city hummed with nervous energy, awaiting the outcome.

John’s brother had done well in his attempt to divide the city. Over the course of the mayoral campaign, a fanatical racism had gripped the city, with people turning on fellow citizens and lifelong friends. The ghoul population, which stood at thirty percent of residents, walked the streets with caution, aware of the bubbling hated towards them. Piper’s article painted Eliza Roberts as a mad harlot that preyed on men, furthering a negative impact on Mayor Roberts. The rumor mill was in full swing: Henry Roberts was going feral, Wiseman would lead the ghouls into a takeover, perhaps opening the Wall and letting mutants have their way with the city before turning it into a radioactive playground. Caravans had been spotty, and the offering at the market reflected that. Everyone was scared.

Tension in the streets didn’t permeate John’s home. Flat on his back in bed, a cigarette dangled from his fingers, and every so often he’d flick ash onto the floor. A bottle of moonshine sat within arm’s reach. He hadn’t bothered voting, spending the day high and miserable. He didn’t owe anyone anything. Throughout his house arrest, no one visited. What few friends he had in Diamond City joined Wiseman in shunning him. Soloman was more of a neighbor that sold him chems than a buddy. And that was it. John had poured the last few years into work and Danse, neglecting to cultivate other connections. The _Diamond City_ _Treasurer_ plate on his front door was a poor consolation prize for failing at a personal life.

The stadium’s loudspeakers spat a high whining sound. John flinched under the duress. After a bout of crackles, Geneva’s voice rang through the city. “Counts are in,” she announced. “By a landslide, Guy McDonough is our new mayor!”

Faint cries and gasps rippled from the marketplace outside John’s house. Someone started sobbing. John picked up the bottle of moonshine and took a lengthy swig. _Fantastic_ , he thought darkly. With his brother pulling the strings, John would certainly lose his position as treasurer, leaving him dependent on the family account. He’d become Guy’s political puppet. _Fuck that_. John would rather live in a crag by the river, eating mutated fish and panhandling.

In anticipation, he’d bundled his glut of essays and, with Cricket’s aid, smuggled them out of Diamond City. He couldn’t leave, but she wafted in and out with a trader’s ease. No telling if Guy would order them burned or steal the ideas and warp them to serve his purpose. John wasn’t about to help him initiate sweeping change for the worse. 

Over the speakers, muffled voices had a quick conversation before Guy himself took to the microphone. He introduced himself with a phlegmy cough before launching into an inauguration speech. **“** A good evening to the good people of Diamond City. This is Mayor McDonough here.”

John scowled and took a final drag on his dwindling cigarette. _Christ, he sounds so damned smug already._ He could practically see his brother in the announcer’s box, puffed up with pride while Mr. Latimer, Mrs. Black, Mr. Wyath, and Mrs. Codman all toasted themselves with vintage champagne in the background. What a win for those in the Upper Stands.

Guy continued his pompous address. “I’d like to thank you – those who stood with me on the honorable side of this election. I’ve heard your concerns and share them. That’s why the city council has given me full say over municipal proceedings. Make no mistake that this is a _human_ city, with _human_ ideals and _human_ rights. And we are entitled to safety within our walls. With that said, all ghouls are to vacate immediately.”

John sat straight up, a cold flush shocking him sober. “Fuck.” He jumped out of bed, knocking the bottle of moonshine over, and began to look for his shoes. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” Hopping over the growing puddle of alcohol, he hurriedly dressed, his brother’s voice a dull drone in the background. Worst-case scenario, he’d thought, was that the city council would bicker back and forth for a few weeks before anything untoward happened. No one – him included – imagined his brother be handed full, immediate control. Guy must have been lining pockets for quite some time. No one with any sense would cross him now.

But John had nothing left to lose, so it was up to him to try.

He secured his knife, checked the magazine on his pistol and tucked it into his pants. He burst outside as the first gunshot went off. Screaming followed. John cast a wild glance around the marketplace. Security, who constantly patrolled the trading floor and kept John indoors, was suspiciously absent. Vendors had slid partitions down or otherwise blocked their stalls with boxes and assorted furniture. John started towards the Upper Stands in a stumbling gait, attention drawn to too many places. Down past the Dugout, in a residential section, human neighbors were physically pulling ghoul residents from the doorways of homes they’d occupied since the city’s founding in 2130. Pastor Clements waved on a street corner, calling for mercy and brotherly love. Ghoul families tugged hastily stuffed suitcases through the tunnel to the ticket booths. A deafening grinding sound meant the Wall was being raised. This eviction was moving at breakneck speed. One way or another, all ghouls would be gone by morning.

He rushed past Piper, who stood the doorway of her new house, mouth in a straight line, dark eyes serious, an arm around her sister, watching the chaos unfold. _Instigating bitch._ If John had something in his hand, he would have thrown it at her.

Security was still absent at the lift to the Stands. John leapt onto the platform and jabbed the big, red button. The lift leisurely extended, giving John plenty of time to observe the Upper Stands tenants, who stood on their balconies, viewing the chaos below like patrons at an opera.

At the top, John threw himself through the entry to the announcer’s box and almost collided into Geneva as she dragged a sack of ballots out of the mayoral office. “You missed the inaugural celebration,” she said, preoccupied with her task. “He’s still in there, though.”

John’s shoulders hardened, and he puffed out his chest. Anger made him tremble. He marched into the office and slammed the doors shut. Guy stood alone by the window, watching the crowds. His beady eyes flicked in John’s direction. A triumphant smile stretched ear to ear like a knife wound. “I did it, John,” he said in an awed and breathless tone. “It’s finally mine.”

Fists clenching, John strode towards him. “So your first act was to orchestrate a shitshow? This is a load of crap and you know it!” He shook, lightning flashing through his veins. Until now, he’d allowed Guy to run roughshod over him. He couldn’t ignore that his complacency had aided his brother to this position.

The smile vanished, and Guy closed his eyes for a moment. When they snapped back open, they harbored the festering disappointment John had come to anticipate. “Oh, my gutless, soft-hearted brother,” Guy said, slowly shaking his head. “This is no personal vendetta. I am an admirable man who keeps his word. This is what the people want. I am chosen to be their voice.”

“And their hammer?” John spat.

“When necessary.”

“Why? What’d the ghouls ever do to hurt you so bad?”

A strangled snort left Guy’s throat. “Disgusting creatures. A blight on the Commonwealth’s surface. Just one of the steps necessary to begin purification.”

“Wh – what the hell does that mean?” John sputtered. Though Guy was arrogant and self-serving, it didn’t seem like he had much of a mind for long-term scheming.

Guy turned fully away from the window to fix him with a stare. “Come now, John. You’re not a fool. Humanity can’t keep living off the scraps of the old world forever. Advancement at the expense of those freaks is no cost at all.” His barrel chest puffed with pride and his small eyes sparkled. “This is my contribution, my calling, if you will. What I was made for.”

A shiver inched down John’s spine, and he was struck dumb. Diamond City’s new mayor was a stranger. His infuriating big brother was absent, and in his place stood someone powerful and dangerously ambitious. Pummeled with change, the city had cracked in half. Was John’s new role to play sidekick and advocate? To hold his tongue, manage the books and look the other way? The idea made him cringe.

The acrid stink of burning rubber wafted into the office. John looked to the window again and saw an orange glow growing on the visitors’ side of the stadium. Tire fire. His heart sank further. The service tunnels he’d used in after-hours trips to Goodneighbor ran underneath, no doubt blocked by heat and choking smoke. The only other way out of the city led through the front gate. Beyond that lay mutants, raiders, and a host of other threats. The ghouls of Diamond City had lived within the Wall for generations – they weren’t mercs or roadside survivors. Folks were going to die tonight, pushed out into the unforgiving Wastes.

Cricket had ahold of John’s papers. He had nothing physical other than the house (and who cared about that) tying him to the city. “If you’re tossing the degenerates out,” John growled, “I guess I know my place.” He spun on his heel and headed out.

“Now don’t go overreacting,” Guy said to his back. “I’m a family man. And I expect my brother to stand at my side.”

John whirled, muscles stiff, heat warming his face. “Then consider me goddamn dead, cause there’s no way I’m gonna look complacent with this.” He thrust an arm towards the window. “Your city is burning, and when everything comes crashing down, I hope it buries you alive.”

Guy paused, lips twisted with narrowed eyes. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You’ve made your choice. I hope you can live with it.”

“Way things are,” John said, turning back around, “I don’t even care.”

On the lift ride down, John watched the flames growing on the visitors’ side. Folks with swatters and guns filled the streets below. John ran hands over his concealed weapons, praying he wouldn’t need to use them on citizens of his hometown.

He stepped off the lift in time to catch Wiseman ushering a group of ghouls towards the front gate. Seeing John, his eyes went ice cold. “Congratulations,” he rasped, a duffle bag over his shoulder. “The McDonough brothers win out.”

“I didn’t want this!” John exclaimed, chest tightening at the insinuation. He kept pace with the ghouls, following them into the ticket booth tunnel. “Christ, I’d have stood with you if you’d have let me. But you set me up, and what the hell was I supposed to do after?”

“Nothing,” Wiseman answered, his expression grim. His group was leaving him behind. “Everything you touch turns to ash. Go home, John. Leave us be.”

John shot out in front of him, blocking the tunnel. “No! I don’t want to leave you. I want to help.”

Melancholy flickered across Wiseman’s face, and he put a hand on John’s shoulder. “You’re a part of the problem, John. Not the solution.” He eased John out of the way and raced to rejoin the others.

A thickness in John’s throat preempted tears. Wiseman was right. Piece by piece, he’d ruined everything that mattered to him. What was left – his work? Puh. Enough people had told him he’d never finish to believe it. He was such a waste of air.

At his lowest moment, an arm looped around John’s elbow. “John! Boy, oh boy, am I so glad to see you!”

Shaken, John blinked down at Eliza, who clung tight to him. Under her curls, she beamed up at him in reverence. She carried a wooden swatter in the other hand, its knob capped with a tiny bronze plaque that glinted under the tunnel’s only fluorescent bulb. Roberts trailed behind her, a briefcase dangling from one hand, a defeated expression on his withered face. “Papa!” Eliza cried. “John’s an adventurer! He goes all over the Wasteland.” She pinned John with wide eyes and squeezed his arm. “You’ll lead us someplace safe, right John?”

“I… uh…” _Shit_. He was such a beacon of misery. The plan was for him to leave, yeah, but accompanied… that seemed like a bad idea.

Old Henry Roberts rushed forward. “John, please. We don’t know what’s out there. With you as a guide, then maybe we stand a chance.” John’s stomach dropped and did an unpleasant flip as Roberts presented a chunky ring. Its center housed a blood-red jewel. “Before the war, it used to fit,” Robert said with a wistful air. “I don’t know why I kept it. I suppose it reminded me of better times. Take it for the promise of safe passage.”

John grimaced at the sight of the ring. Those he wore were a remembrance of those he’d lost in his lifetime. Yet, the jewel being offered him would be worth a fortune to the right buyer. With Guy in his way, John didn’t know what to do for money. Maybe he could reestablish a direct connection to his family’s Liberty Isle account, but that would take time. Being broke in the Wastes meant scavenging and increased risks. And then there were the chems John relied on. Immediate caps meant immediate chems.

John’s gut churned as he accepted the bauble. He then took Eliza’s frail hand. Her ghoul flesh burned hot against his skin as he led the way out. He wished they could take one of his Goodneighbor run passages under the visitor’s side, but that section was currently burning. Ticketing was crowded. John found where all the guards were – keeping the throng moving and watching the night beyond the safety of the Wall. Several ghouls shouted at security, begging for weapons before being sent out into the murky darkness.

Hugging one wall, John squeezed around ticket booth and crept closer to the great square of open air beneath the main gate. A lone statue gleamed in the piazza outside, its swatter raised high in a pose that once reminded John of persistence and courage. Now, it looked vaguely threatening.

“Mayor Rober – I mean, Mr. Roberts!” someone called out. A padded security officer pressed in. “What’s in the case?” A few other guards turned attention to the trio, pinning them in place. Friction crackled in the stuffy air of Ticketing.

“Private things of no concern,” Roberts said, clutching his briefcase closer.

“Look,” the officer said, rifle crossways in his arms, “if you’ve got official city papers in there, those belong to the new mayor.”

“Alright, now,” another officer said, face hidden behind an umpire’s mask. His arm shot out and grabbed ahold of Robert’s thin forearm. “Give it up!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” John shouted, trying to slither between them. He took Robert’s other arm. “It ain’t your business! We’re heading out just like everyone else!”

With Eliza still holding John’s free hand, they were all caught in a tug-of-war over the briefcase. “Papa, it’s okay!” she yelled. “Let go!”

More guards encroached, grasping at Roberts, shoving at John, and disarming Eliza of her swatter. John angled a kick at the masked guard’s knee and the man yelped, hopping backwards. A blur snagged John’s vision, and he jerked away from it. He felt the hiss of wind as a swatter whipped past, missing his shoulder.

The blow caught Eliza directly in the face. A wet crack echoed through Ticketing. Her hold on John’s hand released, and she fell to the ground. “Baby!” Roberts screeched. He dropped the briefcase and it burst open, spilling papers. The guard with the swatter cursed, and the weapon clattered to the floor. It rolled along concrete before stopping, a bronze plaque on the cap. Eliza’s swatter.

Shock and horror drove John to his knees. The fragility of rad-ridden ghoul bones was no match for the force of a swatter swing. Staring into the pulpy remnants of Eliza’s face, John blanched. The fat curls of her wig flattened to the ground, tacky from the spread of syrupy blood. John stared at his hand, fingers still warm from holding Eliza’s.

The ghouls still in Ticketing hurried out, screaming, “Run!” and “Look out!” as they fled. The guards cursed guiltily amongst themselves and backed off. One mumbled a quick apology before leaving.

Robert’s briefcase sat on its side. Scattered all over the floor were pictures – a child’s artwork – drawn in crayon and pen and yellowed from time. Drawings of cars driving over highways. A shining sun over a river. A quaint house stood on a green hill, bunches of flowers at the bottom of the doodle. The edge of one page peeked from beneath the stack, signed in sloppy scrawl, _For Daddy. Love, Eliza._ _2 nd grade._

Shuffling footsteps walked past John. He drew a ragged breath and looked up. Wearing a blank expression on his creased face, Henry Roberts stumbled away from the gaping Wall and into the ruins of Boston, disappearing, absorbed by the night. John couldn’t move, couldn’t beg him to stay. The jeweled ring sat heavily in his pocket as a reminder of his failings.

He was twenty-nine and his life was over.


	6. Two ‘Bots and a Boat

JOHN

Spectacle Island, MA

March 1st, 2289

Even when preoccupied with business, substances or the plotting of upheavals, John had always kept well informed. Spectacle Island – the whole, wide expanse of it – was a unique location. Though held by the Minutemen, it remained abandoned. Something about the soil being unkind to crops. The island was also a fallback site for the Railroad. During Danse’s post-synth discovery depression, Deacon mentioned that John might what to take him on a scenic trip to the island, close enough to ask for Railroad help if questions arose and out of sight from any that would push too hard and say the wrong things. Danse never made it to the secluded island, and now John was there alone.

What had once been a stately manor on the island now sported mismatched pieces of driftwood and rough, timber flats as walls. The house was always drafty and cold. Gaps and knotholes riddled the walls, and the aluminum roofing rattled all night long. A highly nervous caretaker who barely spoke oversaw the secondary Railroad base, contained in a relatively well-preserved workshop and garage. That was fine with John, who relished the silence. No one had bothered him, via radio or in person, and he was grateful.

John sat in the sun on a short, wooden pier overlooking the mainland. Nestled in an old rocking chair, a chilly sea breeze whipping his clothes. He wore tall boots over trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, a leather waistcoat made from tearing the arms off a raider’s jacket. His rings were too small for his new, synth fingers, and they now dangled from cords and chains around his neck. Garrett’s memorial flag had reached the end of its career, the threadbare fabric too delicate to handle. In tatters, John had wound a strip around one wrist and wove bits and pieces of red, white, and blue into his long hair, tying it in knots and plaiting it through tiny braids. What significant material remained, he twisted around one knee.

He spent his days by the shore, stewing in thought. He hated every body that he’d ever been in. It’s not like he’d wanted to die tragically, but it seemed like an inevitable conclusion. The folks who’d worked on this synth had done a good job. There were no discernible gaps in his memories, save for his own death. In the note Arcade had left Amari, John’s personality download had taken place prior to then. But… he couldn’t know if any memories had been tampered with or not, could he? This spiked further worry in John, causing him to question his trust in the others and what may have been real to begin with. All of it was mind-churningly frustrating. And scary. He kept expecting to hear an echo in his mind, the synth body he wore screaming at him to get out. But nothing. He was alone in his head, not a passenger at all.

In one hand, he twirled a syringe of Med-X between his fingers like he would a butterfly knife. Though he hadn’t numbed himself with chems, it was nice to have the option close by. It was a desire built from old habits, but not a craving, his mind at odds with his body. The island was a pleasant, head-clearing place, and reminded him of the few good memories he had of growing up on Liberty Isle. With no one around but that weird Railroad operative, the place was a perfect sort of isolation.

Well, almost. The eyebot was with him, hovering over one shoulder, bobbing lightly and flicking a few operational lights on and off. It had stuck to John’s side since leaving Goodneighbor, the battered thing following him around like a dog. Though he didn’t admit it, John was glad for the eyebot’s quiet company. He’d never been good at being alone, having spent most of his life surrounded by friends, enemies, cohorts, or admirers. Or in the company of a lover.

Guilt crawled around inside John like a living thing. His self-loathing wasn’t Danse’s fault. Would he have tried to reboot Danse after an incident? John had thought about it plenty the year before when Danse was drunk and surly in Sanctuary. _Without hesitation_ , had been his answer. John had been pretty out of it when they last saw each other at Whiskey. Next he knew, he was a captive of the Enclave. Their last goodbye has sucked. But as long as he hated himself, there was no point in dragging Danse along for the ride.

It hurt to think of him. They’d spent ages planning for John’s eventual demise, and it seemed like they’d been in agreement. But Danse proposed, knowing he’d become a widower. That should have been a hint they were on different wavelengths. John should have known that Danse’s stubbornness and tenacity would push him to make stupid, reckless decisions –

 _No._ John put a stop to that way of thinking. He wouldn’t make Danse into a villain. He couldn’t blame him, but he could feel deceived, and too angry to think straight about it. Radio Freedom said the General was at the Castle. Good. Best that Danse involve himself with something he could control and that could give back in return. Tucked away on his island, John could cocoon within his sorrow all he wanted.

Word through the Railroad’s secure line told that a Commonwealth Convention was on the horizon, with representatives converging in one place. The Minutemen, Raiders, Gunners, Railroad, even good ol’ Nate serving as a Brotherhood liaison. No one had enthusiastic feelings about it, but it had to happen. John’s interest piqued, and he entertained thoughts of being important enough to gain attendance. He longed to see the progress made on the Commonwealth Constitution. Without his notes – as they were still in Goodneighbor – all he could do was think great thoughts and tinker with a rough agreement between factions at night when it was too dark to watch the ocean.

The buzz of a motor cut a swath through John’s peacefully pensive afternoon. A dot on the horizon grew, becoming a fast-moving skiff that powered over waves. John recognized the boat as the same one that ferried him to the island. The person who steered the vessel was a Cajun ghoul called Slim, a trader from the Theater District and a Railroad sympathizer. There was another person on board, though John couldn’t make them out. John hadn’t expected a visitor, and concern clashed with curiosity.

Pocketing the Med-X, John stood and whistled for the eyebot to come with. He picked his way along a rickety pier towards a crumbly boathouse. The skiff was docking as he arrived. Nate Sterling climbed out as Codsworth emerged from beneath a water-resistant tarp. Nate’s hair was different, sporting the popular Anchorage cut. It made him look tougher, more of the military man veteran he was. He wasn’t in his Vault suit or his Brotherhood uniform. Instead, he wore a neutral set of blue jeans and a khaki jacket. As Slim looped a tie line in the boathouse, Nate cautiously approached John. Head slightly cocked, he asked, “John? Is that you?”

“Oh.” John stuffed hands in his pockets. He suddenly felt self-conscious. Nate had only known him as a ghoul, and they’d barely seen each other since the fall of the Institute, busy with their own strife. Odd that he’d choose to visit. “Yeah. Hey.”

Nate closed their gap and wrapped John in a bone-crunching hug. John grunted, air flushing from his lungs. In his ghoul body, Nate’s embrace would have picked him off the ground. Taller now, he remained planted. Platonic hugs. That was something John had lacked in life and was unsure how to respond. He held his breath until Nate had his fill and let go. Backing up to look at him, Nate said, “You look… well, you look like a patriotic pirate.”

John’s hand went to one of his small braids. The flag’s fabric slipped between his fingers and he gave a slight laugh. “Alright, sure. I can live with that description.” After tossing a gesture at Slim, John left the boathouse with Nate, their robots trailing behind. “Heard you were in Raider Country,” John mentioned as they strolled the beach.

“True,” said Nate. “There’s… a big story behind that.”

“Keeping that to yourself, eh?” John asked, smirking.

“Eh…” Nate scratched at his buzzed hair with short nails. “For the time being.”

“How’d you find me?”

Nate chuckled. “Who do you think strung the entire Commonwealth together? Everything reaches me.”

John grumbled under his breath but didn’t respond. It felt like his interlude was about to end. Was he ready to return to the world at large? The unused Med-X in his pocket served as a reminder he wasn’t suffering as much as he could be.

“How’re you doing out here by your lonesome?” Nate asked.

John watched his boots travel along sand. “Okay, I guess. Just not… great.”

Nate hummed thoughtfully. “I guess that’s to be expected. I heard you and Danse–”

John halted and cut him off. “Don’t,” he warned. A fresh wound formed at Danse’s name. He swallowed a thickness in his throat. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

A frown pulled at Nate’s mouth before fading. “I suppose that’s not really my business. I care about my friends, though. All of them. I want them to be happy in whatever ways they can be.”

John huffed a sigh. Feeling an absence, he twisted back around. Codsworth and the eyebot had stopped several paces back, facing each other and hovering close. “What’s goin’ on back there?” he called.

“I inquired the designation of your unit, Sir!” Codsworth answered back and the bots resumed their forward propulsion. “It seems… what was it now… _Edward_?” The eyebot shook the front of its chassis side to side and beeped rapidly.

“What’d it say?” Nate asked.

Codsworth’s eyestalks swiveled, the optical shutters opening and closing quickly as if he were blinking. “Something akin to… _Close_? Or, _Almost_?” he drawled, struggling. “Eyebots and Handys weren’t exactly built to communicate. I say, his accent is stew-thick.”

John folded his arms. “ _His_?”

“Merely a default setting. If someone wishes to program a robot with feminine traits, they are usually quite… ahem… blunt about it.”

John thought of the snowy white plating on Nannys as opposed to the rugged steel of Mr. Handys, and the curvy shape of Assaultrons. _Edward, huh?_ The eyebot had a rusted license plate on its chassis that read 2ED-E59. “I’ll call him Ed,” John announced, and the eyebot jiggled up and down, looking like an excited, happy puppy.

“Didn’t know you already had a friend here,” Nate said as they started walking again. “I’d have left Codsworth back home otherwise.”

John made a face. “You came to bring me Codsworth? Man. What a gift,” he said with a hefty dose of sarcasm.

“I understand wanting to be alone. After Nora… it was nice to ease back into the world. Codsworth was a big help with that.”

Glancing over a shoulder, John regarded the robots. He guessed he understood. Having the eyebot – _Ed_ – around didn’t feel as intrusive as an authentic person. There were no questions or opinions, just simple companionship that asked for nothing in return. “Great. Guess now I’ve got two of them. Still…” He clapped Nate on the back. “Thanks, brother.” Ever since the day they met, the guy had been an exceptional friend, better than John deserved. A weight lifted knowing that people could still care about him, even if he was a replacement version.

Nate gave John’s shoulder a gentle shake. “No problem.” His expression then turned serious, and he coughed. “But there’s, well, a problem.”

John groaned. “Aaaand that’s why you’re here.”

Nate tapped his nose in an _on the mark_ gesture.

“Of course.” Following a sigh, John steered Nate towards the house where they could have a more formal discussion.

The robots stayed outside, conversing back and forth. After hopping over a few weak boards on the porch, the two men settled around a dining table that, miraculously, had all its original chairs. Nate sat stiffly with his hands clasped on the table as John leaned on the arm of his chair. “So, what went wrong now?”

“Nothing’s wrong, per se.” Nate rubbed his thumbs together. “But things got complicated while you were… away.” He sighed and shifted. “MacCready’s drowning. He wants to do so much, but he’s just not prepared for the magnitude of the things he’s proposed. He’s got a vision, but you’re the guy with the contacts. Having you to guide him would be an enormous help.”

John scratched his nails along the wood grain of the table. Again, there was a scratch in his mind that asked for a cigarette, but his body lacked the desire. “You want me to go back to the city?” He felt pulled in so many directions – the urge to help, the longing for solace, the shameful desire to avoid anyone he’d known. He’d spent his life spinning in circles, never really accomplishing much. Chems and violence got in the way. Still, he’d never quelled the ambition that burned bright in him.

“I want you to help us get our footing. People still hold bad memories of the CPG. If we want the Constitution to pass, to have others uphold it, we’ll need to be diplomatic.”

John huffed. “The Commonwealth Provisional Government only failed after the Institute got its fingers in it.” He shook his head and ran a hand over his hair at the crown. “Look, truth is no one group dropped the ball. It was a collective failing on behalf of every organization in the Wasteland. ‘Sides, this time we ain’t talking about farmers and scavvers deciding how to divvy a crop – no offense, Nate; Minutemen did as good as they could. We’ve got heavy-hitters from all over the country comin’ in for the Convention. Hell, maybe they’ll actually uphold the Social Contract. Or Mutually Assured Destruction,” he added with a shrug.

“My world tried to call that bluff before,” Nate said with a frown. “Look what happened.”

Taking a moment to ponder, John tapped his foot. “Then before you make any promises, you find out what each group needs – not what they want, ‘cause they’ll want everything – what they _need_ , and ya find a way to make that happen. Diplomacy and whatnot.” 

A proud smile graced Nate’s face. “And that’s why I came to you. You’re the closest thing the Commonwealth has to a career politician. Maybe it was a handful of years, but that’s more than most get. And Piper said you served the Council in Diamond City before that.”

“The Council’s bean counter, more like. Asked me to hide things a couple ‘a times, move numbers around. Only did it when it seemed like nobody’d get hurt. Boy, did that piss my brother –” John’s story died on the vine. His half-smirk dissolved into a scowl. “Ahem. Anyway’s. Point is, there’s no way to make everybody happy. Believe me, I’ve tried. Somebody always gets screwed. Important thing is that they get by with the offer, and no one loses their literal head.”

Nate’s hands clasped a little tighter. “John, I’m asking… Mac, Danse and I, we’ve thought about… when we hold the Convention, we want you there as Secretary of the Commonwealth. Officially.”

John couldn’t help but freeze. “What?” he asked, the question tumbling from numb lips.

Nate’s posture relaxed, and he took a deep inhale. “Mac’ll be going as Mayor of Boston. Danse is the General and I’m a Paladin of the Brotherhood. We all have specific interests in mind, as will the other delegates. We need a neutral party that can look at every aspect. And we believe that’s you.”

For once, words didn’t come. John remained mute for a long time. The Secretary. Officially. He wanted to scream, _Hell, yes, I’m in_ , but clouded thoughts nagged at him. Nerves ran along his spine like ants and a cold sweat beaded his temples. “What if…” Too quiet. He sucked in air and tried again. “What if I’m… compromised?”

Nate’s brows pinched. “How so?”

“My reset code. If somebody knows I’m a synth, they could –”

“John.” Nate glanced down at the table and then up. He fixed John with an even, sturdy gaze. “Everyone’s going to know you’re a synth. You died. Piper ran an obituary. People will stare, and people will get over it. Crazier things have happened.”

“But, my code –”

“From what I gather, the syn… the donor… died anonymously. No one knows who it was. And no one can track it or hack it. It’s just you in there.” Alarm crossed Nate’s face. “Um… right?”

John gave a slow nod. “Yeah. I mean, it’s… yeah. I think it’s just me.” He blew air all the way until his chest caved and felt marginally better. A smile formed. “So, hey. As an answer – fuck, yes. I’ll rep the Commonwealth. Honored to.”

Nate calmed and gave him a wink. “Good to hear. Two weeks from now, at the Castle.”

John’s stomach lurched. “The Castle?”

“Most defensible place at our disposal.”

John slumped. The Castle meant facing Danse on his own turf. John was a pro at avoidance, but there may be no delicate way around that, especially when they both needed to work on a common goal. He was half-tempted to tell Nate nevermind.

“Hey,” Nate said in a soft voice. “If you want to talk about –”

“Nope.” John rapidly rose from his chair. “Thanks, though.” He wandered into the house’s makeshift kitchen and pulled two beer bottles from a cooler on the floor. Using one of the rings that hung around his neck, he popped the caps. He then walked to the front door and whistled. The bots came inside.

“Sirs?” Codsworth inquired. 

“You can do dictation, right?” John asked, walking back to the living room.

“Oh, of course!” said Codsworth, following. “I have a vast skill set –”

“Cool. Hit it.” John placed the drinks on the table and took a seat. He patted Ed as the eyebot rubbed his leg. “Kay, then. I’m a little behind. Tell me all the things I missed on account of being dead.”

Nate reached for a bottle. “That’ll take longer than one beer.”

“I’ve got plenty. Now lay the info on me.”


	7. Form Ranks

DANSE

The Castle

March 15th, 2289

Twenty-six Minutemen ran laps around the inside of the Castle courtyard, their faces glistening in the midday spring sun, figures bent under the full weight of deployment gear. An early shift in the seasons had grass springing up all over the grounds. Radio Freedom proudly sat in the courtyard’s open air, daylight glinting off the towering antenna and various conduits supplying power throughout the Castle.

Danse watched from the wall above, arms crossed over his chest. He wore old motorcycle boots, torn charcoal-gray jeans, a white tee, and his denim Minutemen jacket. “Push yourselves,” Danse called, urging. “Never count on respite or mercy. Your enemy will show you neither.” Someone faltered, and two fellows knelt to help. “Keep going!” barked Danse. “Only rely on yourself. Don’t risk additional casualties!”

The two Minutemen stood, paused, and unsteadily resumed their laps. The fallen one shifted their gear around and pushed back up. They became last in line.

Someone poked Danse in the back, and he turned, brows pinching in a frown. MacCready, one of the first delegates to show for the Convention, stood behind him, a scowl on his face. “Don’t think you’re bein’ a little, well… strict?” he asked. KLEO was at attention by MacCready’s side, scanning the expanse of the Castle for threats. It made sense to see KLEO instead of Fahrenheit – if the meeting went south, the assaultron would make quick work of any agitators.

“Firmness breeds strength and perseverance,” assured Danse, certain that he knew more about military regulation than some Gunner defect. Under Danse’s supervision, the settlement had become a hardened military base. More than half the force comprised of third generation synths like him. Since the end of the Institute, old Railroad operatives and fear-paralyzed Wasteland survivors had also enlisted. Even a few raiders and Gunners had defected to their ranks. Most meant well but were undisciplined, and Danse had no patience for those who didn’t heed his instruction. He and Shaw had publicly removed one person from their ranks. Since then, no other complaints reached his ears.

“Maybe I stuttered,” said MacCready, placing hands on his hips. “I meant you’re being a jerk.” He jabbed a thumb towards the struggling troops. “Those folks on the field aren’t responsible for you being pissed at the world.”

A flush of anger washed through Danse, and he raised his voice. “It’s not the world I’m –” He broke off and quickly turned his head.During a long breath, he checked himself. When navigating labyrinths of sadness on his own, he knew he had a habit of snapping at others. It felt as if his purpose was to experience loss. Was that the Institute’s intent? To see how he’d react when everything he cared about got stripped away? “I’m angry with myself,” he said, quieter. “And I don’t want others emulating my mistakes.”

MacCready snorted. “Believe me, pal – no one wants to mimic your life.”

Danse’s face twitched as he contemplated, and he looked back down at his company, still running their loop along the grounds. Danse had been doing his own circuits late at night, pushing himself to trembling exhaustion without witnesses. Although John lived, Danse remained alone, his old holotags and Sterling’s wedding bands sitting in his inventory like scrap. Still, he respected John enough to give him space to recover, no matter how much it pained him.

He also lived in constant fear of the Brotherhood storming the Castle to reclaim him if discovered that he was the General. His nerves were strung tight with no relief. It was a crutch – funneling his turmoil into work, lashing his Minutemen into foot soldiers with a vigor he barely expected from lifelong Brotherhood members. **“** Hold!” he called out, and the Minutemen stuttered to a stop. “Grab a break and some water. Stow your gear and report to Shaw for additional daily assignments.”

They muttered affirmatives and gladly disbanded. MacCready rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “All this _Hup To_ and _Yessir_ was never my style. But I gotta say, those farmers and soft-muscled synths sure look good down there. Almost an army.”

“Almost,” Danse repeated, novel pride beating weak wings in his chest. “But not yet.”

Danse was a scholar of American military history and knew the location as Fort Independence on Castle Island. Though it failed to reach the standards set for him by the Citadel, Sterling and Garvey had done impressive things with the time they had, setting it up as a liberally fortified Minutemen headquarters. Mortars sat atop all five bastions of the star-shaped base, and manned guard stations – complete with turrets, missiles and spotlights – lead up the southern trail. Their expansive armory was overseen by Ms. Shaw, who wouldn’t hear of anyone else holding the position.

To the east, pumps sat in the shallow Atlantic coastline, supplying vats of purified water. A sizable washroom took up space in the north-west corner of the base. They had rebuilt the western wall with copious amounts of cement and concrete and housed a firing range within the square below. The rest of the interior contained a clinic, workshops, record-keeping, a commissary, uniform seamstresses, one highly regulated pub, and a trading post. Their power needs were so great that two fusion generators sat inside the fortifications. The break in the northern wall was repurposed to create several-stories of wooden barracks, complete with porches, communal areas, and a cafeteria of mostly canned goods and other shelf-stable items. The closest decent farm was Warwick, and even that was a long trip down along the coast. Warwick also supplied most of Murkwater and Jamaica Plain’s resources, as soil proved difficult in both places. Everyone got by, if just barely. 

This was why they all needed the Commonwealth Convention – a way for all factions to mutually benefit and progress. The meeting would be inside the old tunnel system beneath the Castle. In case of attack or betrayal, the hydraulic barrier over the armory could slam shut, shielding those within. Ronnie Shaw would handle any outside discourse, so along with KLEO, security was handled.

A beating of blades caught Danse’s ear. In the distance, two vertibirds made their way towards the Castle. A buzz of chatter wafted up from the radio center, clearing the ‘birds for landing. “Oh, boy,” MacCready grumbled. “Here we go.” The two men and the assaultron descended into the square via a metal stairway, Danse careful of where MacCready placed the legs of his crutches.

One of the vertibirds was unmarked, the other clearly Gunner, its stylized skull on display. No doubt that the Brotherhood had round-the-clock surveillance on the Castle from the airport. Danse wondered how those spies would interpret the arrival of multiple crafts. He sighed. Surely nothing good would come of it. Just another hurdle, another barrier they’d have to work to overcome to reach some a resolution with the Brotherhood. _Maxson should be here_ , Danse thought with a grimace. Going around him felt treacherous and caused a war of conflicting loyalties within Danse. But compromise – no matter how beneficial – wasn’t within the Elder’s wheelhouse.

The Gunner ‘bird landed first, settling lightly on the grassy grounds. A solid-looking woman hopped out of the cabin, her dark skin in stunning contrast to her silver hair. Danse blinked in surprise, recognizing her as Glory, someone he’d seen several times while John was being… rebuilt. Why had Glory arrived in a Gunner craft? A second person appeared behind the woman, dressed head to toe in Gunner green. Stocky and packed with muscle, it was difficult to discern the individual’s gender. “That’s Colonel Cypress,” MacCready informed. Danse nodded in acknowledgement and decided the identity of Cypress wasn’t important. They were high tiered in Gunner hierarchy, and that was what mattered.

“What’s the Railroad-Gunner connection?” Danse asked MacCready.

“Gunners’ll do any job, long as it pays. They’ve run freed synths back and forth in the past. No hard feelings between the groups.”

Good news. That left the raiders and the Brotherhood as the biggest problems. Sterling said he’d found a unified leader to speak for the raiders. Danse remained skeptical.

The second vertibird carried a bevy of people. Someone fully encased in power armor draped with wire mesh thudded out, followed by Sterling in his orange Brotherhood jumpsuit, a thick, bound manuscript under one arm. John climbed out next and Danse’s stomach clenched. Heat licked up from within as various points on his body warmed, and he had to refrain from running to John and gathering him in a tight embrace. John looked… good. Stunning even. Fire burned in his eyes again, and his free-spirited, patriotic attire screamed that he was ready to be the center of attention once more. John turned his head and whistled. Codsworth and the eyebot floated out and joined at his side.

The cozy feeling in Danse’s chest froze and faded when a fourth person stepped to the ground. Knight-Captain Royce scanned the Castle, the scars on her face distorting her visage as light played over her features. Her black uniform looked sleek under daylight. Danse hadn’t counted on ever seeing her again. Dread built as he considered that her visit was for formal purposes. If sent by the Circle of Steel, it would be so she could pass judgement on the Eastern unit. She held the power to condemn Maxson and his actions. He gulped, suddenly worried over the fates of his former comrades.

Chatter rolled over the Radio Freedom broadcast and a few appointed lieutenants ran drills at the ground’s perimeter, but Danse could only focus on the group before him, a tingle crawling up his spine.

Sterling patted John on the back before sharing a few quiet words with the person in the armor. Glory made straight for John, Cypress marching a step behind. Reaching John’s side, she gave him a punch in the arm. “One of us, one of us,” Glory chanted, teeth visible in her wide smile. John gave a shy smile and glanced at Royce. Her slashed lips turned up, and she lifted her chin in appraisal. Danse’s gut continued to twist at the sight of John being regarded as if he were the last cigarette in a pack. _Too many people_ , his instincts told him. In what was likely to be a heated debate, he couldn’t protect –

“Stop it,” he told himself. MacCready turned his head and blinked at him. Danse ground his teeth. John wasn’t his to worry about anymore. His job was to treat him like any other delegate, to sit across from him like they were strangers and discuss the future. John had earned all respect allotted for the Secretary of the Commonwealth. No one loved freedom as much as he did, and he wouldn’t hold his opinions back. This meeting would be… zesty.

MacCready nudged him, and they headed to meet the others. The person in the armor straightened when they came into clear view. They reached up and removed their helmet. MacCready hissed, “Holy fu–”

“Heya, boys,” Cait said, smile pulled tight on one side. “Miss me much?” She tucked her helmet under one arm. Her red hair had matted underneath. “Course ya did. Surprised?”

“I… um… yes,” Danse stammered. He’d nearly forgotten about Cait. Her eyes were bloodshot and droopy, skin sallower than he’s seen it before. He’d seen John sport the same wasted look several times. _Chems._ But with her as a raider now, it came as no shock. 

In a slit-eyed chem-haze, it took Cait a moment to fully regard them. “Christ!” she yelped, gaping at MacCready’s missing limb. “What in the high fuck happened to you?”

MacCready loudly cleared his throat. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, and coughed again. “Well, uh. Shall we?” Cypress gave MacCready a level glare, and the mayor wilted a fraction, making Danse frown. Cait alongside Gunners. MacCready had better keep his past in his past and select his words carefully. It would be a sad day if everything fell to pieces because the one-legged man got heated.

“Splendid idea,” seconded Royce, sliding in close. “Paladin,” she said, tilting her head to Sterling, who hurried to her side. “Paladin,” she said again, looking at Danse. “Lead the way.”

“It’s… ahem. It’s just General here,” Danse corrected, falling into a stride that would take them to the tunnels.

“We’ll see,” she said cryptically, matching his tempo. MacCready took off at a high pace, shadowed by KLEO, and beat them into the fortification. Impressive given his infirmity. Sterling and Cait shared a laugh as Glory, John, Cypress, and the bots made their way forward.

Danse stifled a groan and put his game face on. They all needed to keep themselves in check. The Commonwealth needed every one of them to trust each other. Otherwise, their world would be a stagnant wasteland forever. This was their big chance, and if anyone messed up, they’d never free themselves from this eternal war.

He prayed and pulled the heavy tunnel doors open.


	8. The Big Picture

JOHN

Castle Tunnels

March 15th, 2289

The narrow twist of the Castle tunnels jerked John into the unpleasant memory of being trapped in the specimen tube in Atlantis. Sparse overhead worklights created pockets of darkness to move through. Pulse quickening, he ran fingertips over the brick walls, grounding him to the present. Musty air left a mineral taste on his tongue and there was a dampness that threatened to make his clothes stick to his body.

“You good?” asked Glory, walking at his side. Her brows had creased, face stern as she looked at him. The bots floated silently somewhere behind him.

“Peachy,” John grumbled, the memory’s grip losing its hold. It was far colder in the tunnels than outside, and his skin prickled. Building new walls and clear existing chambers was simple enough, but nobody had the knowledge on how to fix the subterranean portion of the Castle. With time, moisture would irreparably weaken the groundwork, sending the whole fortress crumbling into the sea. John’s mouth twitched with thought. Some ghouls might have been engineers in their day, carrying the expertise to overhaul the foundation. _Better pass that idea along to Nate… or… ya know… General Danse._

From John’s side, Glory glanced forward towards Danse, back at John, then back to Danse. Her eyes narrowed, but she held her tongue.

John dug nails into his palm to distract from a queasy sensation. Up ahead, Cait’s chunky, patchwork armor obscured most of Danse’s broad back. Being near Danse sent spirals of doubt and confusion spinning through John’s senses. Their separation began to feel more like an impulsive choice than a need. Dealing with his transition alone seemed the best for everyone. But John’s memory worked just fine, and he recalled the destructive path Danse had traveled while doing the same. His own actions raised red flags. Another reason to stay sober and face reality, no matter how painful.

A moment of weakness threatened to crack through his chest and let longing spill out. _Fuck._ _I messed it all up,_ John berated himself. Danse might and should hate him right now. Endorsing John as Secretary was his General side talking, looking at the world with cold efficiency, as was his manner. Didn’t mean anything else. Both were strong enough to put the Commonwealth first. 

Though his personal life was on active fire, John’s paperwork was orderly. He’d spent the last two weeks franticly completing the first draft of the Constitution with earnest enthusiasm. It was rough and slightly out of order, but it was here, presenting guidelines for how their world was to run. There’d be amendments, of course – mostly on what they were discussing today – but John had renewed focus, and fully intended to do the revisions tonight, if possible. He even had an unopened box of Mentats with him in case he needed the aid. 

The tunnels gave way to a sizable antechamber. Candlelight flickered around several square wooden tables shoved together to make a long meeting hall. The stone walls were bare, without flags or insignia – a neutral space. With its dark corners and eerie ambiance, it looked like the assembly place of a secret society. The reality wasn’t far off. They were the New Commonwealth Provisional Government, free of Institute meddling this time around.

They fussed over seating as Codsworth and Ed, under strict orders to stay silent, hovered against the walls. KLEO positioned herself at the doorway with an equal shot at everyone present. John ended up between MacCready and Glory, Cypress at her other side at the head of the table. On the other side, Danse sat flanked by Royce and Nate, awkwardly putting John and Danse across from each other. They did their best to avert eyes.

Cait set her helmet on the table and pulled the chair away. She stood in her towering armor at the opposite head, opposite Cypress, sucking on the inside of one cheek as they glowered at each other. Gunner-Raider relations were the wild card in all this, two very fractured groups with a plethora of command entities. Cait and Cypress would have a hell of a time keeping their people in line, and they’d better be up to the challenge. Both would have to watch their backs. And their fronts.

A thin sheen of perspiration dampened Cait’s forehead, telltale signs of prolonged Psycho use. Firelight caught something in the hollow of her throat, flashing a deep red. John squinted to get a better look. She wore a choker with a blood red jewel in the center. “Where’d you get that necklace?” he blurted, gawking.

“What, this?” Cait asked, angling down with her chin. A smug grin turned her lips up. “Peeled it off the corpse of Mags Black when her group tried crossin’ me.” She glanced down again and shrugged. “Ain’t really my style, but raiders do love a good trophy.”

Still staring at Cait, John ran a thumb over one of the dangling rings around his neck. It had been Mayor Roberts’, now missing the generous gem it once housed.

A hardy thump shifted John’s attention. Everyone regarded the Constitution Nate deposited on the table. It was a fat tome wrapped in a brahmin leather binder, pages tied in with string. Codsworth and Ed had been key to scanning and distributing drafts to all parties. Maybe they’d need reminders here and there, but everyone knew what the Big Picture was meant to look like.

“Alright,” Nate started off. “Hopefully, this will be the only surprise, but I won’t be representing the Brotherhood today. Knight-Captain Royce arrived via an encoded frequency, and she deserves that honor. She works for the Circle of Steel. Upper Management for the Brotherhood, if you will. Instead, I’ll be moderating.” He gave a wistful smile. “My wife was a lawyer,” he said. “I’d help her prepare, sometimes. Not sure how much I helped, but I picked up a lot.”

John jerked a thumb towards the floating robots. “Those two trash cans are both making tapes,” he told the table. “Everything stays on the record. No take-backsies.”

“Then let’s not waste my time,” said Colonel Cypress, resting a forearm on the tabletop. “What’s in this for the Gunner faction?”

MacCready cleared his throat and carefully avoided direct eye contact with Cypress. “Gunners are military types. Adopted a lot of stuff from the U.S. Army. So, what if… well… Okay, imagine this. Ground patrols. A regional police and security force holding the Commonwealth together. Just another job, same as normal. With written contracts and everything. Along with a specific… um… what’s the word?”

“Charter?” supplied John. “Code of conduct?” 

“Yeah, sure,” MacCready accepted. “One of those. So things don’t get… out of hand.”

Mac’s underlying statement was a blatant, _Watch the corruption in your ranks, buddy,_ that no one was foolhardy enough to say out loud. Gunner’s weren’t dumb, and they – mostly – stuck to their jobs. The Minutemen breathing down their back would enforce that.

Cypress drummed fingers on the wood, considering. “What kind of payment are you offering?”

“Pay you?” Danse spat, sitting straight up. “Why on Earth would we pay you? This is an advantageous public service!”

Glory gave him a rude look. “What, you want them to do it for free?” she snapped. “For honor and glory? This ain’t the Brotherhood we’re talking about. We need their numbers. They’re organized and disciplined with no bullshit. And they stick to their word.”

Danse settled down in a huff as Cypress kept drumming, expression closed and contemplative. “Colonel?” urged Nate.

“Caps are the bottom line,” the Gunner answered. “If you can guarantee a steady stream, my people will adhere to your Constitution.”

“Done,” said MacCready. He and John shared a pointed glance, and John tried to keep from scowling. It was all mapped out – John’s idea to begin with – but that didn’t mean he liked it.

John grumbled, “Means additional taxes for traders and folks callin’ the Commonwealth homes. Price ya pay to avoid shakedowns and turf-wars, I guess.” Taxation felt dangerously close to tribute and put personal freedom in a chokehold. As Secretary, John would have to use a fresh approach to when he’d been an enforcer of decency as Mayor of Goodneighbor. _The Big Picture_ , he kept reminding himself. _The future, generations down the line._ Everything was about compromise now. Noone was going to get everything they wanted.

“Can’t keep cutting each other’s throats forever,” Glory mumbled, echoing John’s thoughts. “Knifes’d get dull.”

“Speakin’a payment,” Cait broke in. “How do my folks benefit? Seems like ya settin’ it up to have Gunners breathin’ down our necks at all times.”

“What do they want?” Nate asked, his face neutral. Giving in to raider demands could upend this entire discussion. 

Cait shrugged, the movement barely detectable beneath the steel bulk of her armor. “Mayhem, mostly. They’re lazy blokes. Think they got it all figured out nice and comfy-like. Let others to do the work while reapin’ the spoils. Ain’t nobody gonna take up farmin’ or tradework, mark my words.”

Under the table, John tapped his thigh for a moment, thinking. “You know who loves doin’ work?” he finally said. “Early model synths.”

Glory stiffened and shot daggers from her eyes. “Those synths might lack the good looks of you and the General,” she growled, “but they aren’t slaves for sale. Or target practice.”

Cait frowned, as though not entirely convinced of the idea. Nate cut through the frosty atmosphere by telling her, “If you get the Rust Devils on your side, they can maintain and program the Gen-1s and 2s.” To Glory, he said, “They’ll keep them safe as possible. Nobody likes to lose a valuable investment.” 

Although she folded her arms, Glory grumbled, “Fine,” addressing the tabletop instead of the delegates.

“And whatcha lookin’ for in return?” Cait shrewdly inquired.

“Those synth’re gonna work,” said John. “And so are some of your people.” Cait bristled, but he pushed through. “And you’re gonna own all the chems.” As she relaxed, he continued. “No more back alley deals. No drugpins or cartels. Honest shop owners with taxes and set locations. No hoarding, no doctored inventories. Regular folk buy what they want – free of threat – straight from you.”

“No one wants Jet laced with cyanide,” said Cypress. “Or a Psycho dose that’ll stop your heart on the spot. You can’t trust those idiots to make quality chems.”

Two dots of red blossomed on Cait’s cheeks. Before she could explode, John cut her off. “Cuz it’ll be the synths doing it,” he informed. “And their programming is gonna get checked on the regular.”

Cypress’ mouth twisted to one side but gave a small nod.

Cait hummed in contemplation. “If we’re doin’ an op this big, gonna need a big setup to go with. I want Libertalia.”

No matter how many times they had cleared the place, Libertalia kept attracting raiders, which left it an undesirable piece of real estate. MacCready shrugged. “Pretty much floating raider trash already. It’s all yours. Enjoy your junk.”

“You should take University Point, as well,” Nate chimed in. “It’s a good place to start farming and building. Gen-1s should already have the layout encoded. They keep popping up there. Plenty of storefronts, too.”

At the mention of synths, Glory’s face whipped in his direction, suspicion crawling all over her expression. “You kidding me?”

Nate held his arms wide. “All it’s housing right now is weeds and Mirelurks.”

“And _synths_ ,” Glory pressed.

“We’ll get to them,” John promised her.

She gave a snort but relented the matter. “You better,” she growled.

Cait blinked in surprise. Clearly, she hadn’t expected more than one location. “I… yeah, alright. Deal.”

“If you’re giving property away,” said Cypress, coming back into the conversation. “We want to keep the Plaza.”

Another place that had been difficult to reclaim. “Agreed,” said Danse.

“And Quincy,” Cypress added.

For nearly a minute, no one spoke. Nate’s shoulders tightened so much they nearly reached his ears. Internally, John cringed, glad that Preston hadn’t lived to overhear this discussion. The Quincy Ruins remained a ghost town, the place tainted in the minds of too many Minutemen. So it sat, wasted, a prime piece of real estate that no one had the heart to re-inhabit. 

“Concurred,” Danse said at last, sounding solemn. Across the table, he and John locked eyes for an instant before looking away. John rolled his shoulders and squirmed. He knew how hard it was for Danse to concede in any manner. Letting the Gunners retake Quincy was gonna leave a foul taste in plenty of mouths. The choice was tough, and he respected Danse for making it.

Libertalia. The UP. The Plaza. Quincy. The Castle. The Railroad setup on Spectacle Island. These were all coastal locations, easy for travel and bartering. Even Goodneighbor sat far enough east to remain in the loop. But something else sat on the coast as well.

The Boston Airport.

One by one, heads turned towards Royce, who’d sat quietly throughout the meeting, intently listening. John remained dubious of her involvement, seeing as it had been her orders that resulted in his death. He could understand making a tough call, but tossing someone to the wolves didn’t jive with his style.

“Ok. Well…” Nate started. “That leaves the biggest hurdle for last. Knight-Captain?”

Royce took a deep inhale, as if collecting herself. She folded her slim hands on the table in front of her. “Under the Maxson regime,” she said in her melodious voice, “the Brotherhood has become fanatical and dangerous. And we can’t have that.”

Danse and Nate shared a tight-lipped glance, Danse’s hands curling into fists. A greedy look crept into the eyes of both Cait and Cypress. With the Brotherhood gone, both would inherit greater control.

“By ordering at-the-time _Knight_ Sterling to execute Paladin Danse, Maxson violated that Chain That Binds. That order should have been given to a senior officer. A Paladin or Knight-Captain. Selecting Sterling was a sadistic misuse of power, designed to hurt both Sterling and Danse personally. In addition, the order to terminate Danse was an attempt at destroying technology, something that flies in the face of our core mission.”

Nate swallowed. “Has an attempt been made to contact Maxson?”

“Multiple requests for a tribunal have gone unanswered,” Royce responded. She tilted her head and blew a small sigh from her nose. “If the Eastern faction continues with noncompliance, we have to take action. Arthur Maxson must be deposed. And it’s looking like force is the only way.”

The table erupted in murmurs and outright cursing. A rapid series of emotions passed over Danse’s face like pictures in a flipbook. “You’re endorsing a war with the Eastern faction?” he said, voice lowering to a deep thrum. The muscles in his jaw tightened, practically vibrating.

“Not the entire faction,” Royce corrected, shaking her salt-and-pepper head. “Either Maxson will step down on his own, or we’ll go around and through those who would stop us.”

 _Standard Brotherhood of Shits move_ , John mused, scowling.

“With what army?” Danse countered.

Royce stared evenly at him. “Yours, General. To start.” She nodded to the rest of the assembly. “And you have adequate support. Let us not forget the Western and Mojave Brotherhood. I also have the Burned Man and two Couriers in my corner. If needed, they can bring the NCR on board, along with the Zion tribes, and a fleet of Securitrons.”

“Couriers?” Nate asked, puzzled. “Isn’t that like… mailmen?”

Royce gave a charming, if deadly, smile. “In the Mojave, they’re kind of a big deal.” She lifted her chin, calm certainty on her face. “So, if that’s what it will take to be effective, yes, we have the numbers. Currently, how high would you rate your concern with Maxson?”

“High,” MacCready said instantly.

“High,” seconded Nate.

“High,” Danse agreed, looking none too happy about it. He squeezed his eyes shut and sat very still. “Time and again,” he whispered, “I’ve been asked if I believed the Brotherhood could make a difference. Now I wonder if all we do is just trade blows, making it from one mission to the next. We fight, yes, but no one really wins.” He opened his eyes and gazed sadly at Royce. “Do you even find this regime redeemable?”

She put a hand on his arm. “Most of its constituents, yes,” she answered. “But its leadership, no. We need a solution to Maxson. A permanent one.”

“Amen to that, Sister,” John preached. The winds were changing, and the Commonwealth was charging into a novel way of life, laying one brick at a time. Would they end up with an actual President? A Prime Minister? A _King_? If there was a ruler to take the wastes of America by might, that’d be one Arthur Maxson. _Yeesh_. Chills ran up John’s arms. “Guy’s gotta go,” he said.

“You have full Gunner support,” Cypress pledged. “Our ‘birds and bots. Our men. Our guns.”

Cait shifted around in her armor. “My blokes are scrappy on the ground. We’re in.”

“Railroad can offer moral support,” said Glory. “But that’s about it.” A shadow of their already shadowy self, their numbers had never recovered from the crossfire at Bunker Hill. And with the Institute gone and the Minutemen handling synth safety, they struggled to recruit new members. “Though hell if I’m sitting this out,” she added. “Put me in a ‘bird and give me a turret. I’ll be there on the line.”   
Nate, in his orange Brotherhood jumpsuit, bowed his head. “I feel like a traitor. But… this is the next step.” All around the table, somber heads bobbed in agreement.

John placed his head in his hands as the buzz of chatter continued, Royce laying groundwork for the next steps. Royce would use Radio Freedom’s tower to send word west, getting full authorization to make the move against the East Coast Brotherhood. Afterwards, they would sign The New England Commonwealth Accords, holding each of them responsible for keeping their word and providing aid in deposing Maxson.

They adjourned, and one by one, voices faded as the chamber cleared. _Fuck,_ John cursed, still sitting there, his thoughts having their way with him. The first foray of their new government would be to declare war? Openly fighting the Brotherhood would cost lives. What did they have on hand to combat an airship, dozens of vertibirds, heavily armed and armored soldiers and whatever the hell they were constructing at the airport? Sure, the Gunners had aircraft and firepower, and raiders had madness that made for good suicide runs, but normal folks were going to get plowed over. How very like the Brotherhood to crush the entire Wasteland within the gears of their civil war.

John rubbed at his temples and glanced up. On the other side of the table, only Danse remained. His hands were in his lap and his eyes stared at nothing, blank and troubled. Just two custom-made synths hanging out, the fate of the entire Commonwealth on their shoulders. No biggie.

His stomach lurched as he became painfully aware that, save for the robots, they were alone together. John jumped to his feet, then hesitated. It would be childish to take off running. He whistled to the robots. “End recording,” he told them. “Time to head out,” Still obeying his command for silence, they floated out of the chamber and into the hall leading out.

John’s whistle stirred Danse from dour contemplation. He blinked at John, cheeks blotching pink as he noticed they’d been left behind. His Adam’s Apple bobbed. John shook the blanket of discomfort off like water. “Alright, alright,” he mumbled. “Let’s go.”

They walked out together, the bots whirring off ahead. The dark, tight corridor seemed inappropriately intimate, the passageway so narrow their shoulders nearly touched. John shoved hands in his pockets and watched the sand and stone passing underfoot, stepping over rocks waiting to trip visitors. His fingertips traced over the tin of Mentats.

Danse coughed loudly into his fist, the sound echoing in the stone corridor. “How are you?”

John nearly gave an automatic, shrewd response. But Danse looked painfully concerned, and nervous energy fluttered in John’s belly. “Gettin’ by,” he muttered.

“Good. Good,” Danse babbled, nodding too much. He seemed intensely relived. “I’m glad.”

They said nothing else the rest of the way. Strange how they’d become cautious strangers so fast. That’s what John wanted, right? Right? In Danse’s presence, it was hard to remember why.

Back outside, the sun had dipped over the eastern wall, setting as it lit the sky orange. John greedily sucked fresh air and shook out his clammy clothing. The bots hovered at the mouth of the entrance, waiting for additional instruction from John.

Just before they stepped foot into the courtyard, Danse said, “Just so you know, I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if that’s what you need.”

John looked down, lingering in shadow beneath the Castle’s eaves, his heart pumping harder. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“I know. I want to. I’m… using to being alone. I don’t mind.”

John rolled his shoulders up into a tight shrug. “Your choice.”

A wave of sadness washed over Danse’s features. He turned and walked out into the light.

Seeing Danse go, watching him leave again, sent warmth flushing through John’s body, his synthetic nerves sparking. “Dan?” he called, the name sharp on his lips.

Danse whipped around, eyes flaring with hope. In the sunshine, his brown eyes had a honeyed tint. “Yes?” he asked in a breathless tone.

Cowardice claimed John in the last instant. He teetered and choked, making his words alter course. “Take care of yourself, ‘kay?” he said. “Don’t pick fights with anybody that doesn’t deserve it. And if they do deserve it, you kick their ass.”

The light inside of Danse faded a little. He gave a tight nod. “Well advised. Same to you.” He walked across the courtyard, his stride rigid and fast, quickly putting John behind him.

Feeling spineless and weak, John rolled his lips in distaste. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t the way he’d sworn to live his life. Moving forward at all costs should be the goal, not dancing around his emotions like a silly teenager. In frustration, he yanked a hand from his pocket and slugged the unforgiving Castle wall. “Ow. Christ!” he yelped, waving his throbbing hand as if flicking water.

“Would you like a dressing for that, Sir?” Codsworth asked, breaking his silence. Ed’s beeping sounded like snickers.

“Ah, quiet, both of you,” John grumbled, cupping his hand.


	9. Ain't No Game

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

November 11th, 2282

Daisy practically flew across the square the moment he stepped inside the gates of Goodneighbor. “Almost didn’t recognize you, kid,” she clucked, taking hold of his arms and looking him over. Concern drew the lines in her face deeper. “You look like a half-hearted breeze’d knock you right over.” She fingered a lock of his long, matted hair, dried gore crunching where she touched it. “And I don’t even know what to say about your hair.”

John shivered from the evening’s seasonal chill and the crash of Psycho. His eyes burned behind his lids, having cried too hard and for too long. He’d spent the last few days doing a rough loop around the Commonwealth, dropping off Diamond City’s homeless ghouls and wallowing in self-revulsion. He’d discarded the pistol when it ran out of ammo, carrying just his knife now. Blood plastered his clothes, gluing empty pockets to his body. Hunger, exhaustion, and heartache took their toll, and he couldn’t muster the energy to care about his appearance. “Help a guy get rid of it?” he asked, voice rough with thirst. “I’ve had enough of being me.”

She frowned at him, lengthening the fissures in her cheeks, but said, “Sure thing, honey.”

Daisy was the kind of lady that would talk your ear off if you weren’t careful. As Goodneighbor’s town mom, the old ghoul had a soft spot for folks that rolled into the square not actively looking for trouble. She knew John as a courteous, lovely boy who always paid his tab on time, and had benefited greatly by catering to him in the past.

The world undulated in muted, hazy tones around John. Familiar raised voices snagged his attention. Near the door to the Old State House, Parker Connelly, with Kent by his side, stood arguing with the brutish, bald form of Finn the gate guard. Kent looked sheepish, kneading his hat in his hands as his boisterous brother pushed for some special arrangement with Vic, Goodneighbor’s kingpin. “Look,” Parker pleaded. “I gotta take care of my brother.”

Daisy pulled John off the street. “No good’s gonna come from botherin’ old Vic,” she said, guiding him to the loft above her shop. Her place was simple and functional, with sparse furnishings. A pot dangled over a low-burning cooking fire. Daisy handed him a flannel shirt and pants. “Heard about Diamond City. Pardon my French, but McDonough’s a rat-bastard. Goodneighbor’s not the friendliest place in the Wastes. Folks looking to relocate here’ll have a hell of a time.”

As he changed, a sick feeling squirmed in John’s gut. He tossed his bloody clothes into the fire. “Got anything to drink?” he asked, as he picked her rug off the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Daisy plucked a can of water from a countertop and handed it to him. He shook his head. “Not what I meant,” he said, taking a seat by the hearth.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re testin’ my good will, boy.” She gave him a half-full bottle of vodka along with a bowl of stew. After gathering a few items, she kneeled behind him. “Hold still best you can,” she told him. A pair of scissors squeaked as Daisy snipped his ponytail off. The cold feeling of a razor against his scalp tickled as she shaved the rest of his hair away. She was methodical, careful not the nick him as she went.

John spooned a mouthful of stew to his lips. It might have been radstag. It might have been molerat. Anything he’d eaten over the last few days tasted like cardboard. He stared into the cooking fire, letting the smoldering embers hypnotize him. Slivers of wood turned burnt and crumbled, ashes glowing red and angry.

Red.

Red like blood and the deep hue of the jewel in Mayor Robert’s ring.

The last few days rushed back. Keep moving. Keep pushing. Run. He’d escorted a small group of Diamond City’s homeless ghouls to the settlements he knew of. Bunker Hill turned every one of them away. A few were taken in by fishermen at Kingsport Lighthouse and farmers at Breakheart Banks, as both locations seemed low on workers and defense. The rest abandoned John’s care went they bumped into Wiseman’s group at a recreation center with a long, shallow pool. Aware of how unwelcome he was, he abled away on his own.

His feet carried him to Bravo on their own accord, leaving him stunned to find himself there. He’d sat by the familiar terminal, staring for a long while, surprised by how wet his face was. With trembling fingers, he hit _record_ and tearfully spilled all his sins. A futile exercise, as Danse would never hear it and, and John was likely to be dead soon, wandering the Wastes alone and locked in his head.

Echoes of old arguments and laughter with Danse and Wiseman and even Eliza and Garrett flitted through his mind. He didn’t know how much time passed when he came back to his senses, but the bubble around his head popped, dropping him back into harsh reality. With a deep breath he stood, stiffened his shoulders, and walked straight out of Bravo. He didn’t talk, he didn’t think, just went. All the Waste’s refuse rolled through Goodneighbor – a home for people who just didn’t care anymore. They’d chem themselves to death or challenge Marowski or Vic, getting themselves tortured before killed, a message that few seemed to heed. Seemed the perfect place to self-destruct.

He wasn’t aware of anything until Daisy spoke to him. How he’d survived the journey, he couldn’t recall, though his muscles ticked with whispers of Psycho. He had no memory of taking the chem and couldn’t explain his blood-drenched self. Something had died. John started shaking. _Fuck._ Had he killed someone on the road? A trader or a marauder? An entire family? No hints screamed from the abyss of his memory. 

“So, what do you think?” Daisy asked, handing John a tarnished handheld mirror with a crack along the right side. He swept his hand over his pale scalp. Without his wild curls to soften it, his face looked harsh and angular, his eyes bloodshot and huge.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “Thanks.” He rolled into a ball, drawing the rug around him like a blanket. Sleep hit him before he could form another thought.

Not long after, screams jolted John awake. He bolted upright and shook off the rug as Daisy leapt from her double bed and threw on a ratty robe. It was still the middle of the night as they rushed downstairs and out into the entry square. The arms salesladybot, KLEO, stood immobile in her doorway, optic bright red, a high-pitched whir inside her shapely chassis getting louder and louder. Folks from this side of town poked around corners and leaned over ledges, prying into events.

High above, two of Vic’s goons held Parker Connelly upside down from one of the Old State House’s top floor windows. “You got one of hell of a nerve makin’ demands, rotface,” one sneered at the dangling ghoul.

“Nobody walks off the street and gets a private audience with the boss,” said the other.

“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Kent pleaded from inside. “Please, just him go!”

The two thugs grinned at each other. “Yeah, pal,” they said. “Sure thing.”

They let Parker drop to the ground. His body made a grotesque crunch when it landed, limbs askew. Condensed ghoul blood trickled along grooves in the brick street, darkening into a pool that reflected the neon signage of the entry shops. A crowd formed, and a pair of scrawny drifters darted out to pillage the corpse’s pockets before melting back into the throng.

Dry sobs punctuated Kent’s breathless screaming. The noise faded briefly before the front door burst open and Kent went sprawling into the courtyard. He scrambled away from his big brother’s body, careful to avoid the blood. Daisy and John hurried to grab him, pulling him from the scene. Daisy turned Kent’s head, shushing him, but John stared openly in horror.

Armed flunkies spilled out the open door, including Finn, and the former Gunner, Fahrenheit. John had pulled her from a burning ship on the coast years ago. Even retired Gunners took their obligations seriously, so she watched his back on the way back to the Commonwealth, where she’d remained ever since, the promise of steady employment in Vic’s squad too good to pass up.

In their midst appeared Vic himself, a heavy yet powerful dude with sausage fingers and straight, greasy black hair that shined like tar under streetlights. He observed Parker’s broken, bleeding body and gave a loud sigh. “Now that,” he said, sneering, “is one unfortunate mess.” He gave a half turn, raking the Goodneighbor gathering with steely eyes. “Life ain’t no game of _Blast Radius_ , folks,” he said, voice raising to just shy of a shout, “where you get to skip a turn. No, you work your way up from the bottom.” He kicked Parker’s loafer. “Now this sorry sack of shit wanted to sit at my inner circle, right off the bat. Can you believe that gall?” When he gave a callous laugh, his goons followed suit. “Ya’ll sit pretty in the dirt ‘til I say otherwise. Does anyone care to disagree?” Vic mocked. 

The throng of junkies, homeless drifters, and cast-poor vendors stood silent, shuffling, and sharing quick glances amongst themselves. Even Marowski, in attendance with a pair of guards, held his tongue. In the pause, the sound of Kent’s crying was piercing. Ghouls couldn’t cry tears, but they sure could keen, same as anybody else.

“Oh, quit that blabbering, ya’ damn simpleton,” Vic hissed at Kent. The demand only made Kent bawl harder. Vic ripped a rifle from one of his boys’ hands and strode towards Kent, leveling the weapon. “I said, you shut yer damn trap.”

Guilt tore John’s gut to ribbons. Eliza, Roberts, now Parker. How many Diamond City ghouls had to lose their lives because of their eviction? A wave of hot disgust washed over John. If he had to watch one more person die, he’d go catatonic.

As Vic edged by, John whipped an elbow up to collide with the rifle’s forestock, knocking the barrel into the air. In surprise, Vic yanked the trigger. The bullet blew out a window above KLEO’s storefront, and glass clinked to the ground. KLEO’s optic flared. “Property damage detected,” she droned.

The crowd froze in place. Even Vic’s backup stared in shock.

Vic’s eyes slid in John’s direction before the rest of him did. “Who in the hell do you think you are, boy? Challenging me,” he hissed, exposing broken, dirty teeth. “Must be fucking crazy.” Vic pushed so close that John smelled the booze on his breath. “What do you say to me, little man?” he whispered.

Fighting words bubbled in John’s throat, his heart hammering. Now he and Vic were the star attraction. Among Vic’s goons, he saw Fahrenheit shake her head in warning. _Stupid move_ , he chastised himself. Vic’s people could unload their weapons into the crowd at the snap of a finger. As it was, they fingered their triggers, bracing for the order. One wrong move and tensions would pop.

John gulped his pride, that self-hatred he knew so well blazing to life. “I… sorry,” he mumbled. The apology tasted like rot in his mouth.

A mocking smile cut across Vic’s face. He jerked his head and Finn hustled over. He handed the guard his rifle and began rolling up his sleeves. “For those of you bein’ slow on the uptake,” Vic stated to the crowd in a deep bass. “This is my town, ya see. Ain’t no democracy. Ain’t no folks that think they’re gonna best me. That’s plain foolish.”

The first punch came at a downward angle that sent John to his knees. He couldn’t tell the direction of the clouts that came after. “Now, there’s an order to maintain,” Vic said between blows. “That order falls out of whack, and all shades’o hell get unleashed.” 

Vic unleashed a particularly forceful strike that sent light flashing through John’s left eye. He dropped to the ground, ears ringing. Blood dribbled down his face, droplets tickling as they traced the line of his jaw. He tried to get a foot under him, but the world tilted. He could barely see through wavering vision. The hazy form of Daisy’s panicked face floated just out of reach. She mouthed words at him. _Stay down_ , was what it looked like. He coughed, the blood in his mouth trying to choke him. The blow to his eye throbbed, threatening to drive him into unconsciousness. 

The pool of Parker’s blood was frighteningly close. Vic dropped into view, kneeling at John’s side. “Know your place,” he growled. Standing, Vic waved at Parker’s body, telling the aghast crowd, “And clean this shit up. Makes me wanna lose my fuckin’ lunch.”

John’s strength drained, his limbs like overcooked noodles. He lay in the street, cool brick under his cheek, and stared into Parker’s fixed, glazed eyes, the two of them Diamond City expats down on their luck.

Vic and his crew went back inside the Old State House and the crowd dispersed, folks fleeing into the night. Even Daisy left to care for Kent in John’s stead. No one touched Parker’s body, but it would surely be gone by morning. Menial work was below Vic’s crew, but fear of Vic’s wrath would spur someone lower into action.

Time ticked by as John lay still. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was so sick of death and despair, of the Reaper following him whenever he went, leaving strings of tragedies in his wake. It would be such a kindness to the world if he’d remove himself from it. Just another dead drifter. Who cared?

A pair of feet shuffled, steps stopping by John’s head. “Here,” someone said, the shrill voice familiar. “One for the road.” His eyes cracked open to see Cricket in a crouch, holding out a syringe of Med-X. “By the way,” she asked with a measured grin. “Where the hell’d your hair go?”

Sitting up was hard work, and by the time John staggered to the shadows and used the chem, Cricket was halfway through a cigarette. She’d had tough competition in Goodneighbor since KLEO took up residence, spending more and more time traveling. “Meh,” she grunted thoughtfully. “Think my time here’s over. No one’s gonna be headin’ here caps-in-hand long as Vic runs the joint.” Looking around the tall buildings that made up the square, she flicked ash and added, “Too bad. Could’a done a lot with the place. Oh, well.”

The Med-X put a filter on John’s pain, but what he needed was a Stimpak and a week of sleep. More things he didn’t deserve. An agony raged inside that had little to do with his injuries. He twisted Roberts’ ring from his finger. By faint neon light, he worked to pry the jewel from its setting with the tip of his knife. Popping it free, he fumbled not to drop it. The jewel sat in his palm like a drop of blood, the neon making it glow an even brighter red. “What’s this worth to ya?” he asked, showing it to Cricket.

She raised a brow in interest. “Jewels? Eh, boring. But, hey, some people with too much to spend like that sparkly shit. They’ll even overpay. Probably end up in the pocket of somebody in the Upper Stands of Diamond City.” She frowned and looked up at him. “What you want for it?”

A vat of emptiness had opened in John. It was all he could to not fall headfirst. “Told me once about a chem,” he mentioned, throat tightening. “A one-way trip. Whatever happened to that?”

Cricket shrugged and stamped her smoke out on a wall. “Still around, best I know. Not the kinda thing your average junkie can afford.”

He put the jewel in her skeletal hand. “Will this cover it?”

She gave him a knife-gash smile. “Oh, Johnny Boy. When have I ever failed to hook you up?”


	10. Danse, with an S

JOHN

The Castle

March 15th, 2289

Long shadows crawled along the Castle’s grounds as Royce conferred over the Radio Freedom line, Danse’s broad form at her side. While the other representatives milled about, catching up with old acquaintances and touring the fortress, John lurked in an empty stone corridor. With his back to cool stone, he stood rubbing the label off the Mentat tin in his pocket and peering into the courtyard. He’d flagged Ronnie Shaw down and sent Codsworth off for upgrades, leaving Ed as the lone robot, who hovered low by John’s hip. Absentmindedly, John patted its chassis like petting a dog. In return, Ed rubbed against him.

Discomfort squirmed in John’s belly. He spoke for the Commonwealth as a whole. Unless Maxson yielded, a drawn-out war would be catastrophic for civilians. The Minutemen had grown in numbers, but they wouldn’t hold a candle against tightly regimented Brotherhood forces. As General, Danse had to know this. He had a strong, tactical mind and was good at war games, despite any odds. The Gunners – with their ‘birds and artillery – were sorely needed in this, as they’d even the playing field.

John shifted and scratched under his jaw. When he’d been human, he hadn’t mustered much of a beard. Over the last few weeks though, his synth body began to generate a stubby coat of reddish whiskers. Looked like he’d have to take up shaving. Or not. His choice.

Once Royce gained full clearance to deal with the East Coast Brotherhood, John would have to help draft the Accords. He hadn’t planned on spending the night at the Castle, in tangible proximity to Danse – maybe even sharing a wall between them – and the prospect sent a confusing sort of turmoil charging through his veins.

He didn’t want to stay.

But he did.

He didn’t.

He did.

His mind tumbled, torn.

_Focus!_

Without thinking, he popped the Mentat tin and dropped a chalky tablet into his mouth. As the pill began to dissolve, he recalled Cait’s red-rimmed eyes and the chem-powered madness of her raider legion. Goodneighbor having to clean up after drug lords’ shootouts. All the kids in town getting hooked while he was too high to intervene, Nate dressing up as a comic book character to do the job he should have managed. His own stupid choices that led to where he was now.

John spat the half-dissolved Mentat out and used his finger to remove residual chalk from his mouth. He swore to treat this new body, this new lease on life, with more respect. Not for anyone else, not for the Commonwealth, but for himself. He wanted all his future mistakes to be clear-headed choices without chasing euphoria around wherever it led him.

“So, uh… someone has to ask this.”

Startled, John jolted and found MacCready hobbling towards him, avoiding uneven stonework with his crutches. He’d unfastened the top button of his shirt. His pointed face looked a decade older than when he’d married a pregnant Lucy.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” MacCready scolded.

“What do you mean?” John responded, a gruff edge to his voice. Ed chittered, backing him up.

MacCready sighed and joined in leaning against the wall of the corridor. “You’re going out of your way to ruin your life. And while I may not exactly get it, I get it. You’re upset. But pushing Danse away is a shitty – really awful – thing to do. I was his chief hand-holder while you were… gone. He wasn’t alright.”

John’s throat tightened, and he shoved hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching. He didn’t have a snappy comeback.

“Can you light me a cigarette?” Mac asked.

John’s shoulders raised higher in a shrug. “Don’t got.”

Frowning in surprise, MacCready said, “No kiddin’? Okay. Look, after losing Lucy…” He bit his lip, pausing to stare at nothing for a moment. “I thought I’d never stop hurting. But I did. And Nate, well, we all know that story. But Danse… it was like someone had scooped his insides out. Every moment of every day, all he could think about was you. It was tough to watch. Even when things were bad for me – and they were really dang bad – I didn’t feel as awful as he looked.” He scratched his spiky nose and continued. “I guess ‘cause… I knew it was over. Danse didn’t try to mourn, to move on. He just worked harder to get you back. And now you’re here. But you’re not. And that’s gotta be killing him.”

John’s eyes squeezed shut. When he tilted his head down, a few small braids fell to curtain his face. “I know,” he whispered.

MacCready gave a sharp exhale. “Hey, at the end of the day, I know you’re gonna do whatever you wanna. But things are tough enough without all this personal stuff. And if you want to talk to someone, I’m here.”

Through his nod, John remembered Nate saying the same thing. But this was too private, and he just plain didn’t want to. Even Danse had tried to have words with him this afternoon. John wasn’t ready. He worried if he ever would be, eternally trapped in a synthetic body with his life on hold. He couldn’t be seen as a mess of a man, especially not now with the civilian Commonwealth on his and MacCready’s shoulders.

MacCready craned his head around a corner, peering into the courtyard. “In any case,” he said. “Coast’s clear. Let’s get this done.” He put his weight on his crutches. “Promised Dunc I’d be home for dinner tonight. He’s nuts about the Shroud right now. Blabbing my ear off.”

John grunted as they left the stone passage, feeling another guilty kick to the pants over the Shroud business. The coast was indeed clear, and Royce stood at the Radio Freedom tower nearly alone. Almost everyone had dispersed, even the radio jockey. Now, only a bored-looking Glory hung out, sitting backwards in a chair, arms draped over the rungs. Royce was flipping a handful of papers front to back, inspecting the wording.

“Hey, boys,” Glory greeted John and Mac. “Come to hear the nitty-gritty?”

“Watcha got there?” John asked Royce.

Royce’s eyes held a vibrant gleam. The small smile graced her lips. “I reached the Circle. They gave me the green light to collaborate with local authorities. Before I left, Circle Scribes prepared a draft of the Accords, though it’s not much.”

No kidding. She held only three pages in her hands. “And you brought it anyway?” John chided. “How optimistic of you.”

Her serene, patchwork smile was radiant. “I think I understand people pretty well. You’ll tweak it, I figure. Here.” She handed it to John. “Take the reins, Mr. Secretary.”

“Guess I should start carrying a pen,” John grumbled. Ed nudged him in the back and coughed a pencil out of his inventory hold. MacCready and Glory cackled, and Royce’s eyes crinkled in good humor.

The paperwork seemed standard, holding those who vowed aid to their word, lest the wrath of a united Brotherhood fall upon their doorstep. He approved, even if it needed further details. John rolled the papers up and stuffed them in Ed’s chassis for safekeeping.

“I’ve been managing registration,” said Glory. She waved a fancy fountain pen in the air. “Gotta stay useful, somehow.” She shuffled her chair closer to the radio desk and leaned over another sheet of paper. “You guys ready to bring down the man in the high castle?”

MacCready blew of a mouthful of air from one cheek. “No. But we gotta.”

“Full title?”

“Robert Joseph MacCready, Mayor of Boston. That’s with two Cs.”

He said it simply, as if perfectly comfortable in his position. The scrappy kid all grown up.

“Two Cs,” John mocked, punching him in the arm. “Like she doesn’t know that.”

“I didn’t,” Glory said, not looking up. She spun the page in his direction and handed him the pen. “Sign here.” MacCready scribbled a sloppy signature. She glanced at John. “Next.”

“John. Eastern Commonwealth Secretary.”

“Full name?” Glory asked, writing part of his title.

John faltered. He didn’t know what to say. McDonough or Hancock? Neither felt right. “I don’t… think I have one anymore…”

The line above MacCready’s name read, _Daniel Danse/M7-97. Minutemen General. Paladin of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel._ He’d given all his titles while John didn’t even know his synth designation. Thinking of Danse generated that old chem-pull sensation of mindless craving. He felt silly and lonesome, knowing he’d dug himself into this. He’d wanted to be solitary, to be angry and spiteful. For what reason – to justify his own misfortune?

Glory glanced at Royce then back at John. “You gotta give a name, man. Just… ya’know… make one up.”

Finding his fists clenched, John forced a deep breath. He could keep being upset or rise above brash impulses and see truth. _I’ll wait for you,_ Danse had said, whether John deserved it. He worried over the Accords while ignoring an oath from Danse that held as much weight as any contract, a promise just for him. He’d put a priority on the Commonwealth’s pact while leaving another on the table for too long.

After a lengthy hiatus, John responded, “I’m John Danse. With an S.”

Both Glory and Royce stared. MacCready steadied his crutches. “Wow. Holy crap.” he wiped at his eye with a knuckle. “Ugh.”

“John… are you sure?” Royce asked, her blue eyes soft.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. He grabbed Glory’s pen and hastily scratched his new moniker. “I gotta go.” He tossed the pen back and took off running, Ed in pursuit, beeping in a confused tone. Ronnie Shaw would know where Danse was.

Going back into the pentagonal structure, he tore down the steps, twisted right towards the meeting hall – it wasn’t his first visit to the Castle – and threw open the heavy wooden doors. Lightbulbs and sconces gave the interior room plenty of light. An enormous Minutemen flag hung on the back wall. Under it sat a generously stocked bar, good for raising the spirits of those about to barter. Maps, supply routes tracked with red string, plastered another wall. The opposite side housed a terminal on a desk, a data entry station for the Minutemen. 

Sure enough, Ronnie was present. As was Danse, who, though seated at the head of the meeting table, sat straight-backed in his seat, red in the face and mouth tightly sealed while Ronnie gave him hell. “Handin’ Quincy right back to the Gunners! High holy shit, General,” she hollered. “That’s one tough pill to swallow.”

“Uh… hem,” John coughed, standing square in the doorway.

Both Ronnie and Danse lifted their heads. Something like relief swept over Danse’s face, washing the red away. “If you’ll excuse us, Ms. Shaw –”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, and waved a finger at him. “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this matter.”

“I doubt that I have,” Danse mumbled.

Ronnie brushed past John on her way out, reminding him, “Your Handy won’t be done ‘til tomorrow at the earliest. Had to send it to Cruz.”

John nodded. “Sure thing.” Isabel Cruz, also known as the Mechanist, oversaw all robotic maintenance for the Minutemen, even provided robot provisioners along their supply routes. Codsworth would come back a whole new ‘bot.

When Ronnie had gone, John asked, “Can we, ya’know, go somewhere?”

Danse stared for a handful of seconds. “Of course. Um. Follow me.” He stood and exited the room. They shuffled a bit in the doorway, wary of bumping into each other, then Danse led John further down the passageway, Ed in tow. They arrived at another wooden door, which Danse opened. He stepped inside the dark room and lamplight flared, chasing shadows away. “You can come in,” he called.

Before John entered, he gave Ed the brusque command of, “Sit. Stay.” The eyebot made a sad sound but assumed watch in the hall. John closed the door behind him.

The chamber was so unlike Danse, it jarred John’s expectations. Lush, jewel-toned fabrics draped concrete walls, insulating the room from sound and the seaside chill. A large curio housed chipped plates and dusty crystal. Rows of shelving held collections of things – children’s toys, peeling books, jars and cans of mystery objects, a locket, bottles and bottles of rare Nukas, and stacks of clothing. On display in a corner, a headless mannequin wore the lavish General of the Minutemen costume, its hat sitting atop the neck. Floor lamps with ornate shades graced either side of a sizable bed adorned by a carved headboard and plush quilts. Well-repaired sofas and polished dressers, cabinets, and end tables completed the space. There was no alcohol in sight.

“It’s more than necessary,” Danse said as John gawked, “but I didn’t have a say. Originally, they built this room for Sterling. The hodgepodge of items,” he explained, waving at the shelves. “They’re gifts from the settlements we protect. I… didn’t know what else to do with them…”

John found himself struck by how good and selfless Danse was. Why he even put up with John’s complex shit at all was a mystery. John took a ginger, stiff seat on one of the sofas, his heartbeat hammering a tune against his ribs as he rubbed sweaty palms on his pants. Danse seated himself on the armchair across and put folded hands in his lap. John gulped a hard swallow, wanting to speak but hesitating.

“Do you think,” Danse began, “that cooperative members of the Brotherhood will be given clemency? In the Accords –”

“That’s just an outline,” said John, disappointed to talk shop. Of course Danse had spent mental milage over the future of his former comrades. Couldn’t blame him. “I’ll be the guy flushing it out. And, yeah, I’m not gonna punish folks for doing the right thing. Those who walk away’ll have a place in the Commonwealth.”

“Where though? I’m aware of attitudes toward those who serve. The Commonwealth is rife with synths and ghouls. Former Brotherhood members will have a difficult time adjusting.”

John callously huffed. “Sounds like _too bad_ , to me. If you and I can get through all we have, they’ll be just fine.”

Danse gave a glum smile. “Is that what we are? Fine?”

Looking down, John scratched at the yellowed fabric of his seat. “All things considered,” he answered slowly. “I think we are. I am. Are…” He glanced up. “Are you?”

A calm, weary sadness lived in Danse’s eyes, as if he’d made peace with it. “I am… what I am.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed a leg over his knee. “You’re back in a political position. How does that feel?”

“Eh,” John grunted, scratching under his hair. His braids wiggled. “Same ol’, some ol’. Politics are risky. Lincoln and Kennedy would agree.”

“Honestly, your style is closer to Jackson.”

A laugh burst from John’s lungs, and he clapped a hand over his heart as if wounded. Jackson had been a divisive, loathed, and headstrong president. “Hell, what a backhanded compliment!” he snorted. “Good one.”

A fraction of light returned to Danse’s expression, making his smile more genuine. For one sweet moment, everything was normal, them both at ease and sharing good spirits.

John forced a deep breath. “Look,” he said. “I gotta fess up to something.”

Danse narrowed his eyes, cautious. “…alright.”

“I… signed the Accords as _John Danse_.”

Silence. The smile slid from Danse’s face as his skin turned ashen, looking cut to the heart. His leg snapped down and he gripped the arms of his chair, fingertips digging into the material. “Why… why would you do that?”

John drew his knees up, boots on the sofa, and wrapped arms around his legs.“Years and years ago,” he started, images taking place in his mind. “I’d sit at home in Diamond City, staring at the walls, and I’d shoot up or take pills and drink, feeling like a bystander in my own life. I’d do ‘Tats and write to pass the time. Whole while, what I really wanted was to have you with me. And ever since I got that things just keep getting wrecked. We jump from one catastrophe to the next. It never ends.”

“Doing this to you,” Danse interrupted, “making you live like this, is far worse than anything I’ve had to suffer through. In my desperation, I didn’t fully consider the cost. I… can never apologize enough.”

“No.” John shook his head. He stuffed his pride deep down and looked Danse square in the eye. “Sometimes, a decision can be terrible without be wrong. I would download you over and over again.” He shrugged and gave a gentle smile. “But, hey, I’m a selfish jerk. And a fucking idiot. Sorry about the stuff I said. I didn’t mean... I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” Danse mumbled.

Tears burned the edges of John’s eyes. “Naw. I didn’t –”

In a flash, Danse was out of his chair and next to John. He put an arm around John’s shoulders. “ _I know_ ,” he insisted.

John turned his head and buried his face in Danse’s chest, seeking solace. Danse smelled the same as he always did – musk, armor grease, and the sweet scent of the oils used on energy weapons. In his new body, John knew he smelled different. Did Danse notice? Did he care? “Without you around,” John mumbled, sucking back sobs. “Without you, I make mistakes. Huge mistakes. Knowing you’re watching me, it helps. Makes me try harder.” He shifted under Danse’s embrace and yanked the Mentats from his pocket, hurling the tin across the room. “How’s about this?” he bartered. “If I ever want a hit, or you feel you gotta drink yourself dry… can we just fuck instead?”

A pleased, warm smile lit Danse’s face as he laughed. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, please.”

They kissed. And again. And again. John unfolded and slid off the sofa. Danse stood and tugged John towards his too ornate bed. Stumbling over his feet, John shucked his vest and peeled his shirt up by the hem, crossing his arms as he wiggled out of it. Danse placed his Minuteman jacket on the back of a chair before grabbing his tee by the back of the collar, yanking it off as he ducked his head. The passing fabric left his brown hair tousled, setting butterflies free to flap in John’s belly. To his surprise, Danse’s holotags were back around his neck, motes of blue font glowing.

One more kiss, with increased tongue and teeth. Both reached for the other’s waistband. They paused and laughed again, sharing intimate humor. Danse sat down on his bed and John crawled into his lap.

Another one of John’s bodies. Another first time. Another round of sensations to discover.

It would be a lie to say that Danse treated John’s synth body the same cautious way he had treated the ghoul one. This was shades of the past, and the hungry way he’d gone for John’s original self. He took his time with this version, finding each mole and sensitive place John didn’t know he had. Often, Danse stopped to pull John back, looking up at him, fingers twining in his braids. One position wasn’t enough. Two, three, they kept flipping, taking turns being greedy.

At John’s climax, the floodgates opened, and a wave of emotions converged at once. Tears squeezed past and, in his euphoria, he sank teeth into Danse’s shoulder. Danse hissed and twisted slightly, careful to not tear flesh as he shuddered. It wasn’t the first time John had bitten him, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. They held each other longer than necessary, still moving, chasing the dregs of orgasm. 

After, Danse got out of bed – John took additional pleasure at watching his bare ass walk across the room – and rifled through his Minutemen jacket before slipping back under the covers. He produced two gold bands and presented them to John.

“You rob somebody?” John asked, lifting himself on an elbow and raising a brow.

“I most certainly did not,” Danse spouted. “Sterling gave them to me. I’ve… had them for a while,” he added, bashful.

John plucked the larger ring, turning it over and over. So, this had been Nate’s. And the other, smaller one, belonged to his dead wife. That he’d gifted them to Danse filled John’s chest and mind with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and compassion. John had never been good at leaving the past in the past. That anyone could move on after losing their partner, their family, seemed like folklore. John made a mental note to stop holding people at arm’s length. Everyone around wanted to help him, and it was high time he accepted their support.

He reached for Danse’s left hand and slid the ring onto his finger. It fit just fine. Danse hesitated, gaze flitting at all the rings that now hung around John’s neck. He took Nora’s band and placed it around John’s ring finger. It almost immediately slid off. “Well, shit,” John grumbled, catching it. “You had to give me my old scrawny hands, didn’t ya?” He tried other options, and the band sat well at the base of his left middle finger. He snickered and held the digit up. “Good enough?” he asked through a smirk.

Danse wore an expression of serenity that John had only seen a time or two before. “It suits you.”

This felt right. It felt done. He and Danse were a unit, bound together. He rolled into Danse, carding fingers through his hair. Having been so anxious, irrational, and angry, he felt as if he were dreaming. Danse rubbed John’s back, fingertips delicate over his skin. “You wanna have a ceremony once all this blows over?” John asked, Danse’s stubble scratching the bridge of his nose.

“I believe I would, yes. You?”

John chuckled into Danse’s neck. “Oh, you know I love a party honoring me. _Us_ ,” he corrected.

They lay together a while longer. Too soon, Danse got up, retrieving his pants. “Get dressed. If we don’t appear for supper, people will talk.”

“Ah, let ‘em talk. They’d be right.” John wagged the ring on his finger. “Not forcing this cat back in the bag.”

“Hmm. Interesting colloquialism,” Danse mused, putting his shirt back on. His hair was a delicious mess. “And do you intend on flipping me off as often as possible?”

Naked, John slithered up to Danse and wrapped him in a hug. “You know it.”

When they were both dressed, they went into the hall together, hand in hand. John almost tripped over Ed, who lay on the floor near the doorway. The eyebot wobbled to life and rose. Optics scanned them, lights stopping on their clasped hands. Ed froze, then slowly began vibrating. From within its chassis, a loud fanfare began playing and wood chips shot from its hold like confetti.

A flush crawled over John’s face, and he looked to Danse for help. Danse’s ears were tato-red. “That’s your pet,” he mumbled. “Not mine.”

John sighed, but grinned. “Alright, Ed,” he told the bot. “You caught us. Go ahead, little buddy. Spread the news.” Ed jingled happily and floated off, playing the music and spitting sawdust.

“Why did you stuff it with wood shavings?” Danse asked.

“I… didn’t. One of life’s great mysteries, I guess.”

Danse led them toward Castle’s dining room, where they were sure to be assaulted with questions. John didn’t mind. He looked forward to it. This would be the first time they’d be openly together as a couple before a crowd.

John was more than fine. He was ecstatic.


	11. Precipice of War

HAYLEN

Boston Airport, MA

March 19th, 2289

An undercurrent of dissention rumbled within the Brotherhood of Steel. With the Institute gone and the Railroad stagnant, all that remained for the Brotherhood was a draining standoff between Commonwealth leaders and the Minutemen. Scattered across the land, soldiers held their positions, hostages at their post, surveying the Wastes, while those stationed at the airport went about their duties as need be. Was this how those in the Enclave felt at the twilight of their time? What else could they do? Orders were that defectors be hunted down and executed for risking Brotherhood secrets and safety. They’d lost eight people already. Perhaps Maxson hadn’t brough the fervent Outcasts back into the fold – maybe they’d just integrated. 

Haylen found herself on the ground today, in the storage section of the airport. One perk of being a Field Scribe meant leeway in terms of assignments and posts, some free range amidst the tension. The Brotherhood had lost the Police Station when the Institute imploded, radiation levels in Cambridge now too high to risk occupation. Both the airport and Prydwen would be crowded if not for increased units in the field. Given their relationship with the region, the Brotherhood wouldn’t be requisitioning more supplies. They had what they had, with nothing else on the way. Farms were refusing tribute, and with the Minutemen ready to defend them, it put the Brotherhood in a difficult position.

The Logistics department had grown in importance, a sour-faced Knight-Sergeant Gavil keeping close tabs on anything that went out. Haylen handed a request form to the man, who took it and waved her away. Her expression forcefully blank, she gave a salute and turned on her heel.

She hurried out, pausing briefly beneath the towering wreckage of Liberty Prime Mark II, laced within a gantry. It stood inert, more relic than weapon, Scribes hard at work replacing worn-out hydraulic systems with electromagnetic actuators. The colossus still required a beryllium agitator – a super-energy generator – for power. Proctor Ingram and her team were out in Boston right now, searching for one.

All this was clean energy tech, Institute-style. And no wonder, given Prime’s new head engineer. Doctor Madison Li, chief facilitator of Prime’s original construction back in the Capitol, was back with the Brotherhood of Steel. When she turned up, Maxson himself vouched for her while shooting two other Institute scientists on sight **.** No trials, no Scribes to record the proceedings, just simple executions. _For Crimes Against Humanity_ , the logs read.

Haylen wondered why. Anything they’d known would have been useful. Another deviation on their path, straying from the Codex – destroying tech and those who create it rather than absorb both into Brotherhood control. It was increasingly difficult to do the right thing with moral guidelines constantly shifting. Her allegiance with the Minutemen felt more like true liberty than treason. They had clearly noble goals and a dedicated chain of command. Danse lead, but without an iron fist. And even without his guidance, they wouldn’t stumble into doubt.

People bustled about in the terminal, busy and ignoring her. Paper crinkled in one of Haylen’s many pockets. She fished it out and checked the writing one last time. _Noon. The usual place._

While the Prydwen ran as the well-oiled ship it was, the airport below had many twists and turns within the terminal and an absolute maze of tunnels underneath. It wasn’t difficult for Haylen to slip out of the ruined building and into East Boston. Her walk north took an easy forty-five minutes, radgulls squawking at the shoreline and the sea breeze brushing her cheeks. She was hot under her gear as she pulled the door open on an innocuous workshed in the city’s factory center. As she stepped on a familiar lift and let it rumble its way down, she tugged at her uniform, letting cool air seep in.

The Mechanist’s Lair was always freezing. Haylen navigated a hallway and out into the main chamber. You could easily fit a Behemoth inside, along with plenty of its closest friends. The Lair stood as an utterly expansive facility, sealable to the outside world, if not up to Vault standards, but a reasonable solution should the entirety of Minutemen settlements need to evacuate underground. Haylen knew that possibility stressed Cruz, so due to her proximity to the airport, she helped the girl manage requirement parameters. They’d both been unsure of how they could be of help to the Minutemen, yet together they’d stocked and equipped the subterranean base in spartan fashion. “Izzy?” she called, voice knocking off thick, steel-plated walls. In darkened corners, heaps of hoarded robotic limbs and chassis’ formed nightmarish figures.

“Up here!” chimed an answering echo. Metal clanged and scraped in recognizable ways – table legs being slid, chairs getting unfolded – in the next level alcove. Haylen traveled up a catwalk and around a corner to find the meeting about to start. Isabel Cruz shot her a nervous smile, wiping a tabletop with a rag that came away oil stained. She was young with short, dark hair and wide, olive-toned features. Nate, in his Brotherhood uniform, had already claimed a seat. John and Danse stood, their hands braced on chairbacks and chatting in low voices. Decked in his braids and leather, John’s new look was just plain fun, if Haylen could even remember what fun was.

She’d visited the Castle a few days ago to find them formally married by Wasteland standards. Why involve religion and paperwork when you could get dissolved by bug larva the same day? Her heart swelled for them. Lord knew they both deserved a break.

The last person present was a stranger, a dark-skinned man in tarnished coveralls and a wildly eccentric headpiece that included a flashlight and mounted microscope. He looked… well… a little crazy. “Hi. Um, I’m Brittney. Britt.” Haylen extended her hand. “I don’t know you.”

“Oh, hey,” the man said. “Tom. Nice to meet’cha.” He dodged her handshake. “No offense, but I… you know… can’t say where that’s been.”

In the background, John snorted. Nate sighed. “Alright kids,” said the paladin. “Time to fall in.”

Everyone took a seat. Cruz and Tom shifted nervously, staring at Danse and Nate. John rocked back and forth in his chair a little, looking like he wanted to put his feet up on the table before giving up. “So, um,” Cruz started, licking her lips. “Can we finally talk about the big, scary robot?”

“Minutemen forces are actively blocking city roads,” said Danse. “And the Gunners are keeping their bargain by creating additional air traffic. Not direct conflict on any side, but it will delay in Prime’s completion.”

“There’s a new engineer working on Prime,” Haylen mentioned. “Or, old, depending on how you look at it. Danse, do you remember Dr. Li? She bounced from the Brotherhood to the Institute and back again.”

John’s previously lax expression turned several shades darker. “And the Enclave,” he growled.

Prickles ran up Haylen’s spine. “Pardon?”

“Excuse me?” Danse burst, running over Haylen’s own question.

John scratched fingernails across the tabletop, drawing hands into fists. “She was in Atlantis. Lovely old broad. Enjoyed watching my ghoul body as it turned to sludge.”

Haylen had no idea that Li’d been with the Enclave. Did Maxson? She and Danse glanced at each other. The Brotherhood was swiftly spiraling down a dark path. “We can’t wait,” Danse bit. “If Prime becomes operational… if Maxson gets wind… there are too many variables.”

“Tom,” Nate said. There were wrinkles around his mouth, as if he looked pained. “I think it’s time.”

Their visitor cleared his throat again and again before speaking. “Right, uh… well… see the Railroad’s had this plan for a while now. Dez calls it _Rocket’s Red Glare_. Got a tidy cache of Stealth Boys and explosives. Just, um… need a way aboard.”

Danse turned marble stiff. “Aboard… what?”

“I mean… c’mon, man. That airship, of course.”

Heat flooded into Danse’s face. Red started at the collar of his tee and shot to his brow. “ _The Prydwen_?” he exploded. He stood and nearly launched himself across the table. Haylen and John each grabbed one of his arms. “Are you mad?” he yelled. “There are Squires on board! Innocent people who simply follow orders!” He gasped and swung his gaze along the room. “You’d let that happen? You’d be complacent in the murder of blameless individuals? Sterling?” he implored. “ _John_?”

John clenched his teeth. “You really think the Brotherhood has individuals?”

The two of them tussled for a moment, John letting Danse get the upper hand. With both wrists clasped in Danse’s iron grip, John held his stare. Danse’s breath turned shaky. A brightness filled his eyes, tears building under their surface. “This isn’t right,” he whispered.

“It ain’t fair,” John said. “But it is right. That thing can’t stay in the sky. You know that.”

“We’ll broadcast an announcement,” Sterling broke in. “Give those who wish to a chance to evacuate.”

Haylen swallowed hard. The cost of bringing Maxson down to Earth was becoming extreme. There was little way around bold action at this point. The Prydwen was a heavily armed warship that could easily lay waste to anything below it. She wasn’t close to anyone in particular, but her brothers and sisters didn’t deserve annihilation. Deep in her heart, she prayed they would make the pragmatic choice to retreat, even if that meant repercussions from on high. “Danse,” she said, “I don’t like this either. It makes me sick. But we’re running out of time.”

“Do not get back on that ship,” Danse ordered her. His expression was firm and intense, the way she remembered him during the Gladius recon mission. “Whatever the outcome, don’t be there.”

She nodded, somber. “Alright.”

Danse held firm for a few more seconds. “Dammit,” he hissed. He let go of John and slid back into his seat.

“Well, you’ll like this less,” Nate said, wearing a deep frown. He rubbed at a brow. “Without Haylen on board, we’ll need you to guide the explosives team. No one else knows their way around.”

Danse cradled his head in his hands. “How can you ask that of me? You know the ship just as well.”

“I’ll be at the airport with Cruz. At the end of the day, Prime’s just a robot powered by a computer. And a computer can –”

“Get a virus,” Cruz finished. “I’ve got plenty stored. One’ll knock Prime offline permanently. I just need to find out which one.”

“That straightforward, huh?’ said Tom. “Well played.”

“Not exactly.” Cruz fidgeted. “I’ll need to have a monitor actively plugged into Prime’s mainframe while I search for the right one.”

No one commented. They sat with pursed mouths, tapping fingers against their arms and glancing at one another. “Is the Circle sending additional forces?” Haylen asked.

Nate and Danse’s frowns turned deeper and John made a sour face. “No,” said Nate. “They don’t want to risk a civil war within the faction. We’ll have to handle it.”

“Cowards,” John muttered. “Protecting their own asses while ours are on the line.”

“It avoids additional strain.” Danse mumbled. “We’ve never been without a Maxson before. People are unsure of how to proceed should he refuse to stand down. Better that his fate lay outside of Brotherhood hands.”

Haylen let her mind drift. Should Maxson challenge them to the end, how long until the entire Brotherhood crumbled? It already featured cracks and fractures. _Not long_ was her conclusion.

“We’ll need a ‘bird,” Nate said, getting back to planning. “One that’s already cataloged and wouldn’t raise suspicion docked at the Prydwen.”

“That could prove difficult,” said Danse. “All craft are coded and locked to prevent exactly this – technology falling into the hands of enemies. Only the Lancers know the codes to their ‘birds.”

“What about yours?” Haylen offered.

Danse swiveled his head. “ _Invictus_?”

“That is, if you had someone to fly it,” she cautiously added. Danse could pilot the craft, but taking him to the airport when people when knew he lived was far too dangerous.

“No worries, ma’am,” said Tom with a grin. “That’s where I come in. I build, fix and fly.”

“If you steal a ‘bird,” Danse warned, “you won’t have much time before it’s considered compromised.”

Nate stood up. “Then, we’ll do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” they chorused in aghast tones.

“Yes, tonight,” Nate verified. “Glory has the bombs at the Castle. Cruz has the virus drive. Gunners are upholding their bargain. Raiders are on their way to fortify the Castle. We’ve arrived at the precipice of war. We have to do this now.”

One by one, they responded with glum nods.

Nate released a long exhale. “Okay. First step. The ‘bird.”

“ _Invictus_ is being used as a freighter,” said Haylen. “She’s parked on the pad outside Logistics.” She looked at Tom. “Airport security is tight,” she warned. “They see somebody they don’t know… well, that person had better be a fast talker.”

“Uh, yeah, about that...” Tom ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Sneakin’ around was always Deacon’s thing. I’m more of an indoor kitty.”

Haylen cringed. This meek man would never make it past an interrogation. “Then, we need a distraction.”

“Kay, then,” said John. He lifted his chin and grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m your guy.”

Danse blanched. “John–”

“Nobody knows me,” Joh reassured. “The guy with this face died a long time ago. And, c’mon.” He gave a roguish smirk. “Lemme have one last round of fun with the bigots.”

“I have a spare set of Brotherhood armor somewhere,” Cruz offered. “I have spare… everything.”

“Then that’ll be for Tom,” Nate settled. “John, come with me.” He and John headed off together while Cruz dragged Tom away to look for the armor.

For the time being, Haylen and Danse were alone. He rubbed his hands together in the chilly room. “Are we the villains in this?” he pondered. “I don’t know how to tell anymore.”

“Well,” Haylen began. She moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve always trusted your gut, Sir. What’s it telling you?”

A wave of grief rolled over Danse’s face. His arms hung limp. “That we are damned, regardless.”

They stayed together in quiet reflection. Given Haylen’s assistance in this, certainly the Circle of Steel would pardon her acts and grant her an honorable dismissal. She entertained a daydream of being reunited with her daughter after this, of watching her little girl run out of the Citadel gates and into her arms. Maybe she, RJ, and Duncan could all go to the Capitol together after this. Haylen smiled at the thought.

Heavy clanks and the piercing sound of metal against metal heralded the return of Cruz and Tom. Both were burdened under power armor sections. “You know, it’s easier to just get in and walk the whole thing here,” mentioned Haylen.

“No power,” Cruz said. “Hang on.” She shoved her load at Tom and spirited for her quarters, calling, “I’ve got a fusion core in the workshop. Be right back!”

“Where’s the frame?” Danse shouted after her.

“Oh, sparks! I knew I forgot something!”

Without the armor, the frame was just a skeleton. Without power, the armor was a cage, trapping its inhabitant inside. Memories of sundering soldiers out of their suits in the Capital flurried through Haylen.

While Tom dropped the ocular on his headset to inspect the armor, John and Nate walked in. The paladin wore a spare mechanic’s jumpsuit, and John was dressed in Nate’s orange uniform. He wiggled uncomfortably in it. Danse’s mouth fell open as Haylen gulped down a giggle. “Yeah, yeah,” John grumbled, picking at the fabric. “Laugh it up.”

“I hate seeing you in that,” muttered Danse.  
“Believe me, this thing gives the creepy-crawlies,” John assured. “I’m outta it the second we’re done.” He yanked the coordinating hood on, concealing his embellished hair. The effect was instantaneous. He looked like any other anonymous soldier. 

“Got the core!” yelled Cruz. “Now what was I…? Oh! Frame! Don’t worry, I’ll find one!”

After some scrambling, Haylen was back outside with Tom and John, headed back to the airport. The afternoon sun felt equally condemning and delicious, given the speed at which tonight’s pressures were drawing. The way Tom walked in the armor made it look stiffer than normal. In contrast, John marched proudly, fingers laced behind his head, grinning like a fool. Despite their outward postures, seeing them together was less suspicious than Haylen’s lone trek to the Lair. Patrols traveled in trios, and the combination of Scribe, power armor and trademark orange wouldn’t draw immediate attention. Plus, Tom was under orders to remain absolutely mute, saving them another possible headache. Danse had even disabled the speakers, just in case.

Closing on the terminal, Haylen pulled John near. “Can you act… less natural, please?” He squinted and stuck his tongue out at her. “Let’s not throw the whole thing away from the get-go, shall we?” she pleaded.

“Fine, fine.” John stood a hair straighter, hands at his sides. Walking past the stationary armored guards at the fence, he nodded to them. “Good job keepin’ an eye out, boys. Can’t risk synths walkin’ in like they own the joint. I knew this one guy – he put on jam before butter. Total synth. No one in my unit believed me. They were all like, _hey, let a guy enjoy his condiments_ and I was all like, _no way! That there is suspicious.”_

Haylen wanted to slap a palm across her face, then slap John for good measure.

“We appreciate your diligence, soldier,” a guard droned as they walked past. “Ad Victorium.”

The watchmen at their backs, John shot Haylen a double thumbs-up, his smile cracking even wider. She gagged on a groan and kept on. This was the guy that earned a wedding band from Danse?

Tom did better at sticking to the plan, though the angle of suit canted back as they traveled under Prime’s gantry, him staring up the massive robot. Haylen felt a loss and pivoted. John had halted, his overconfidence draining along with the blood in his face.

“Don’t expect me to accept that answer!” Dr. Li snapped. She stood at the opposite side of Prime’s framework, flanked by three scribes. “Ingram could be in the Dominion of Canada, for all it matters. What I need is a…” She stopped and gazed in Haylen’s direction toward the far side of the terminal. The fried remnants of Nate’s Institute Transporter sat crumpled in an open courtyard cordoned off by stacks of airport seating and cement barriers. 

Li’s scrutiny was far too close for comfort. Haylen spun to face the wall, mumbling a line of white noise commentary to Tom, trying to seem busy and inoffensive. “Follow me,” Dr. Li commanded the scribes. They strode into the terminal, disappearing at a junction towards the internal workspace.

John broke into a fast stride after them. Haylen leapt and grabbed the back of his jumpsuit. He couldn’t compromise their mission in a fit of passion. “John, no!” she hissed. “Not here and definitely not now!”

She felt a tremor rumble through his body. “She killed me,” he snarled.

Haylen recalled Danse’s horror stories of John’s love affair with suicide and chems. “John… you killed you.”

Some air went out of him. He settled and rolled his shoulders, any sense of enjoyment gone. “Let’s just finish this,” he mumbled.

Though she didn’t entirely trust his composure, she let go of him. “Turn left inside,” she said. “We just have to get past the Logistics Center.”

They ducked inside – not literally enough, as Tom banged his helmet on the way in – finding Gavil’s team hard at work, about a dozen people in olive-colored uniforms, accounting for every spare bullet and requisitioned seed within their stores. This was the end of their reserves.

John crossed his arms, staring down as he walked. Tom stuck to Haylen like pitch. She held meaningless small talk with them the whole time, talking in a way that didn’t require a response. By their lucky stars, no one addressed them.

Deep in his sulk, John veered slightly off course. There was nothing Haylen could do when one of the Logistics crew, carrying a sizable box, came around a tall inventory stack and slammed right into him. John and the young soldier bounced off one another and tumbled to the ground. The box dropped, sending a cascade of gears, screws, and springs in all directions. Haylen winced as applause broke out. Someone even whistled before Gavil barked at them to return to task.

John and the crewmember scrambled to their knees. They both worked to right the box and scoop tiny, spilled components back into it. “Sorry about that,” the soldier said. He had a buzz cut and a clean-shaven face. “I get a little lost in my work.” He peered at John. “You must be deck crew. Everybody outside of my unit looks like a stranger. I’m Dennis Clarke.”

“I’m… Billy Bob Jim Bob,” John fibbed. “Family name. Uh, names.”

“Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.”

With John’s successful distraction, Haylen took the opportunity to usher Tom up a flight of stairs, leaving John and Clarke to search for the rest of the scattered materials. She spotted _Invictus_ on the landing pad, her hull sparking in the sun. All top-level guards faced outwards, scanning for threats from the sea or city. Haylen scooted across the tarmac, Tom clanking behind her. She helped him board _Invictus_. “Turn the suit’s magnetic soles on and stay put,” she instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

Haylen ambled out of the craft and turned to retrieve John. She stopped cold. John stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the staircase railing. Clarke was at his side, box still in his arms. Neither paid heed to her as she gingerly approached.

“The crafts touch down over there,” Clarke said, gesturing to the pad with his chin. “You know, that was Paladin Danse’s vertibird.”

John nodded. “How ‘bout that? Interesting.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait – wasn’t that the guy? You know. The synth?”

“Pugh,” Clarke snorted, and shifted the box. “Synth, ghoul, Martian, who cares? All the things he did were awesome! He was totally a role model.”

“Totally,” John agreed, a warm smile spreading over his face.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Haylen lingered for a minute. Clarke seemed so happy to speak casually to someone. Along the way, the Brotherhood had forgotten about the need for personal relations and morale, even intimacy. The Minuteman had them beat in several aspects – having families and friends, something special to fight for, an ever-shifting future where anything was possible. One can only see light at the end of a tunnel if they look forward, and the Brotherhood was firmly rooted in the past. Haylen sincerely hoped Clarke would be one of the soldiers that abandoned their post when the evac warning came.

She cleared her throat. “Ahem. Excuse me, Knight. Can I bother you?”

It took John a moment to respond. “Oh! Right. Well, thanks for the directions,” he said to Clarke. He fumbled with his hand before remembering to knock in over his chest in the correct salute. “Nice chattin’.”

“My pleasure. See you around.” Clarke headed back downstairs.

John joined Haylen, and they headed towards _Invictus_. “You make a new friend?” she chided.

“What can I say?” John winked and climbed on board. “Everybody loves me.”

Haylen rolled her eyes and followed him in. Pure, dumb luck followed some people around.

“Can I come out now?” came Tom’s deeply muffled voice. Haylen spun the valve on the suit’s back, and Tom slithered out. A fine sheen covered his face. “How come nobody told me how hot it gets in there? Now that’s just plain rude.” Haylen checked that the suit was securely magnetized to the floor as Tom took the pilot’s seat and began inspecting instruments.

John ripped his hood off, and his wild hair sprang free. He undid the uniform, peeling the arms off as if they were on fire. He tied the loose material around his waist, revealing a white tank with rips at seams, and a volley of rings dangling from chains. “You sure you can fly this?” he asked Tom.

“Read the manual cover to cover,” Tom answered. “And with the codes from one not-so-human friend of ours…” He tapped Danse’s unlock program into the controls and _Invictus_ came to life. “…away she goes.”

Haylen got a funny feeling. “Wait… what manual?”

As _Invictus_ lifted into the sky, she and John braced for a bumpy ride.  
  



	12. Play to Win

JOHN

The Castle

March 19th, 2289

A flurry of activity swept through the Castle, and fresh faces congested the fortress. As the sun set, dipping into the ocean, people clustered in corners, speaking with their own groups. Tension choked the air and voices rose in biting tones. Cait’s voice was shrill and savage from within the Castle’s war room, slinging threats and promises to local raider leaders. Everything felt rushed and anxious.

In the doorway to the Castle’s grand meeting hall, John pressed a note into the hand of a Minuteman, a synth who’d done previous work with the Railroad. “No stoppin’,” John told them. “Straight up the highway. Gunners shouldn’t be – _better not be_ – a problem.” He shot a glare across the chamber in Cypress’ direction. Old grudges with the Gunners flitted through memory.

That stare was met head-on. “There are grander motives at play,” retorted Cypress, before turning to one of their milling officers. “Enjoy your secrets.”

Not a secret, but a warning. With everything kicked into high-gear, MacCready and the rest of the Commonwealth needed to know what was happening. Since no one could risk Radio Freedom’s signal getting intercepted, other methods were in play. Skating around detection, John’s runner would inform Kent, who would send word to Travis via the Shroud frequency. Then Travis was to send out a standby code through Diamond City radio to Minutemen and allied troupes out in the Wastes to ready themselves. Between The Mechanist’s Lair and the vaults, the people did have refuge, should straits become that dire.

John’s messenger melted into the crowd. Cypress appeared ready to head out as well, flanked by a team of hardened men and women. In a show of faith, Gunners were gifted access to the Railroad’s Morse Code line. At that moment, their numbers hemorrhaged from the city ruins, loading up their ‘birds and making their way to the coast, collecting north of the airport at East City Downs.

A woman with a half-shaved head with coal-streaked eyes bumped right into John. “Watch it, _synth_!” she snarled, fingers twitching towards her belt.

Shocked by the new slur, John flinched. He’d grown used to plenty of name-calling. _Bastard, son-of-a-bitch, rotter, zombie, jerky-face._ This was novel, and it took a moment to process.

“Oy! Red!” called Cait. “Ya watch yerself!”

The woman glared at John before sidling past him and into the hall. He glanced at Cait, who rolled her eyes and went back to ordering her subordinates. He hadn’t seen her without her Overboss armor since she arrived.

Cait had the roughest deal of all. Raiders ran in small bands without a cohesive structure. Cait’s leadership was more myth-come-to-life adulation than genuine respect. If not for her armor as a status symbol, the raiders may have attacked her instead of listened. She’d sent runners – small guys with lightweight armor and an intimate knowledge of the Commonwealth’s twists and turns – to spread orders. No telling if any of the Nuka World bands would make it in time to bolster Castle defense. She had raiders setting up on the peninsula and to overlook the trail from South Boston. A gamble. Time would tell if Cait had the moxie to hold her team together. The Castle would get pinched if Cait lost control of her minions.

People passed John in their haste, acknowledging him with a nod or wave. He didn’t recognize most of them, but they knew him. “Mr. Secretary,” a few greeted along their way. John found it odd being fully integrated into a society, respected even. He’d made his home in back rooms and on the outskirts, never at the forefront. Even in Goodneighbor, hiding beneath the character of _Hancock_ , a rare appearance and well-worded speech led to infamy, not outright popularity. He’d never been the man in front. Even now, with nerves bow-tight all around, his hands were steady and the need for substances far from his mind.

This wasn’t his war. Such stressors now belonged to Nate, Royce, Glory and Danse. He was just the guy that would write about it afterwards.

Avoiding the glut of people traversing the halls, John swung himself out of the stone corridor and into the courtyard. The bustle continued on the field. Royce’s vertibird, _Six_ , sat under Minutemen guard. Raiders in filthy sack hoods and leathers crouched under stairs, smoking and gambling while they loaded bandoliers and awaited further instruction. A pair of Gunners in green uniforms beneath tarnished field armor conferred at the radio tower, tapping code into the transmitter as daylight waned. Minutemen in denim and flannel, the synths among them undetectable, moved artillery shells up to the perimeter defenses.

These were the people of the Commonwealth. A people united. John’s people now. The Constitution holding everything and everyone together resided in the General’s Quarters, under Ed’s watchful optics. _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_. But with the Brotherhood’s boot removed from their throats, could all parties keep their word? John found his heart and head at odds with one another. Change was hard, and not without risk. Sometimes it trickled in so slowly it went unnoticed. And sometimes, it landed with the force of an atomic bomb.

Crossing the courtyard, John spotted Cruz conferring with Sturges outside the armory, and strode towards them. Danse emerged from the armory just before John reached them and drew Sturges aside. Pale and nervous, Cruz paced back and forth, rubbing palms over coveralled thighs. The girl had a brilliant mind but wasn’t used to field work. “You okay, sister?” John asked, pulling up to her side.

“I want to throw up.”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You’re gonna be fine. Nate’s no amateur. He’ll keep you close.” She nodded, still looking green. “You got it done, right?” he continued, searching her face for signs of doubt.

The change of subject caused a shift in composure. Cruz stood straighter, more confident. “Sent off this morning. Haven’t heard anything yet, so I assume it’s working. Remote commands are wired and ready.”

He gave her a wink and a rap on the chin. “Good job, doll.”

“Sure you don’t need me, boss?” said Sturges, drawing John’s attention. The handyman had made a name for himself within the Minutemen and was one of the group’s figureheads.

“I need you to remain here and maintain order,” said Danse. He scowled at the rabble wandering around the Castle grounds. “And sanity.”

“Roger, Roger,” Sturges agreed with a good-natured salute. “Will do. I’ll check in with Ol’ Lady Shaw, then.”

A flicker of humor crossed Danse’s face. His laugh was a single puff of air. “Don’t let her catch you saying that, Lieutenant.”

“Wouldn’t dare risk it, General.” As Sturges turned to search for Shaw among the crowd, John caught a flash of unease cross his face. Keeper of the Peace was a tall order for Sturges. His strengths were in communications, not mediation.

Cruz ducked into the armory, but Danse grabbed John’s arm before he could follow. “I want you safe within the Castle walls,” he said. “Even if the fort falls under attack, you should be able to –”

“Wait, wait, wait,” John blathered, holding a palm up. “You want me to hide while everyone else is stickin’ their neck out? Sorry, but have we met?”

Danse pulled him closer. “The Castle is crawling with outsiders,” he whispered into John’s ear, “and God knows what they’re planning. I’d like to imagine Cait will maintain command, but I have to be realistic. Expect a moment where things turn, when one tribe of those animals tries to gain an advantage. Sturges believes in the good in people, but you’re... more pragmatic. I need to know the Castle itself is in good hands.”

Despite the surge of disappointment at missing a front-row seat for the night’s events, John conceded. Danse was right. Somebody with a firm hand had to babysit the thirty-or-so raiders that occupied the Castle. Sturges would get run over, while Shaw would start shooting. “I’ll handle things,” he promised. “You can count on me.”

Danse’s hand traveled from John’s arm upwards and squeezed the back of his neck. “I know I can.”

Had they been alone, they would have kissed or hugged. Something. Under the dying light of the courtyard, in plain view of everyone present, all that occurred was a moment of awkward silence. The next step would have to come from Danse, and John would never push or trick him into it. Instead, he clapped a hand over Danse’s chest and said, “Let’s go get all this over with.”

Inside the armory, Royce, Glory and Nate stood over a center workshop table draped with a hand-drawn map of the Commonwealth beneath a single strip of fluorescent lighting. An intimidating wall of weaponry – energy, heavy, exotic, all kinds – served as a backdrop. Cruz sat in a nearby chair, tinkering with a hefty weapon in her lap. The thing looked like a miniature old-fashioned naval cannon, strapped with thick rope and a makeshift rig.

“Should Maxson retaliate,” Royce asked. “Where would he strike?”

“The Castle, obviously,” said Nate. He wore his form-fitting blue Vault suit. “Urban centers – Diamond City, Goodneighbor,” he listed, pointing at the map. “Even the farms would be taken. Burned if need be. Maxson plays to win.” He caught John and Danse’s entry and asked, “You send word to MacCready?”

“Sure did,” John answered, and pointed at Nate’s apparel. “Is the blue for good this time?”

Disgust darkened Nate’s face like a storm cloud. “I’m done being any branches’ officer. At least now, all my decisions and mistakes are my own.”

“Tricky thing about freedom,” John noted, a wry twist to his lips. “No one else to blame.”

“I don’t envy this liberty,” muttered Danse, joining at Royce’s side. His grim expression matched Nate’s. “It feels… like tragic destiny.”

Royce’s hand drifted to Danse’s arm. “I’m proud of you, Paladin,” she told him. “You bear the weight of responsibility with grace. Some decisions shouldn’t be taken lightly.” At her praise, Danse roused himself, jaw tilting up.

Royce’s appearance in his life must have been shattering. He’d barely begun to carve a path for himself, both as a civilian and a synth. Seemed like the whole world was caught up in transition. Mac in Goodneighbor. Cait, the raider queen. John’s brother –

No.

John grit his teeth at the memory of a bloodied office. The Institute had made fools of too many people. Now, the goggles were off, and the rest of humanity had to pick up the pieces. Danse was a unique case – _hell yeah, he is_ , John thought with pride – with one foot in and one foot out of the Brotherhood. An outsider with inside perspective, come full circle to take on the very faction he’d been created to infiltrate.

Did he get the creeps at imagining a current of nanotech running through his veins the way John did? Did he notice a metallic taste in the back in his throat some mornings? John had set aside such disturbing questions for later. After the Brotherhood had been dealt with. After the Commonwealth had stabilized. After each farm and drifter had food and resources enough to take care of themselves. After… a day that would never come unless John forced it.

Vowing to stop running, stop stalling and avoiding, John put a hand on Danse’s back and stood close. “Small insertion teams,” Danse was saying, tapping the map. “Here and here. Back-up from the Gunners camping north.” Another tap. His finger traced down the image of the coastline. “That leaves the Castle as the largest regional defense should everything go awry.”

Glory snorted. Her heavy Railroad coat looked stiflingly warm. “Wouldn’t call the whole of the Brotherhood crashing down on us as something gone _awry_.”

“Could ya call it _a_ _cryin’ shame_?” John jokingly suggested, ticking off slang in his head. “ _Goin’ ape_? How’s about _the royal shaft_?”

“Oh, is that one about you?” Glory countered, a glimmer in her eye.

“ _Ain’t that a bite_ is one of my favorites,” added Cruz, setting her bulky weapon to one side.

“Kids,” Nate cut in, shaking his head. “Don’t make me pull this mission over. ‘Cause I will.”

They all piped down. Glory coughed, following with, “Tom’s got _Invictus_ doing idle circles over the Gwinnett sector. High levels of mutant activity. Typical sort of thing for a Brotherhood craft to monitor. We’ll rendezvous with him once we’re ready.”

“You won’t be able to dock for long,” Royce cautioned. “Deck crew will become suspicious.” 

“Sky drops,” Danse advised. “I’ve done plenty. Out of _Invictus_ and directly onto the Prydwen. The piers stick out farther than the main ship. That way, we’ll only require momentary docking for escape once we’ve completed our… sabotage.”

Glory frowned. “Never taken a flying leap out of an aircraft before. If I miss… What if I’m in the armor Tom used? I’d hit the ground below, but I’d be fine, right?”

“The ocean is below, not the airport,” Danse pointed out. “That armor would break apart on impact with the surface, then sink to the bottom with you in it.”

“Great,” Glory grumbled. “So, don’t miss. Got it.”

Danse rested a finger against his temple. “People suspect I’m alive. I can’t speak or be seen.”

Nate snapped his fingers. “The Paladin armor. It’s still under my designation. No one will question Paladin Sterling being aboard.”

The muscles in Danse’s back tensed. John gave him a gentle nudge. “Don’t let it mess with ya. Whole thing’ll be quick and over ‘fore you know it.”

Danse turned to look Royce in the eyes. “Please, make one last appeal to Maxson. I have to know that there’s no other choice.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “I, and the Circle, require peace of mind as well.”

John’s imagination tried to conjure a scenario where Maxson saw reason, agreed with his superiors, and relinquished the Commonwealth to its own government. He almost laughed out loud.

While the tactical minds moved on to Nate and Cruz’s duties, John stepped away and crossed the chamber. He knelt by the weapon Cruz had been working on and lifted it with both hands. It was heavy as a dead mutant hound, and just about as ugly. A rusted plaque on the top read _Broadsider_.

Seemed like the kind of item to have on hand when this all fell to pieces.


	13. Rocket’s Red Glare

DANSE

The Castle

March 19th, 2289

Zipping into yet another orange interface suit felt akin to closing a body bag. Once part of Danse’s everyday ensemble, a thin layer of skin separating him from his armor, the jumpsuit clung to him like dried gore, a sickening reminder of what he was willing to do for the sake of the Commonwealth. The Railroad had supplied him with this particular worn and sweat-marred outfit. He didn’t want to know how they acquired it.

A dented radio sat atop a cabinet in the General’s Quarters, tuned to Diamond City radio as Danse changed. John’s runner made good time. Travis’s coded message played between songs, alerting those at checkpoints throughout the Commonwealth of impending battle. “ _Be sure to wear your shades tonight, folks_ ,” the jockey warned. “ _Gonna be one hell of a Glare over the East_.”

By the bedside, Ed warbled. The Constitution rested within a flame-resistant blanket under the mattress. Danse mentioned that ‘under the bed’ wasn’t necessarily the safest place, but John had a point that thievery wasn’t the Wasteland’s biggest concern at the moment. After the meeting concluded, John headed off with Cruz, and now the eyebot had a touch of separation anxiety, hovering close to the floor, its beeps morose. Danse hadn’t seen Codsworth in days, but heavier topics weighted on his mind.

Such as the monumental task of betrayal. Part of Danse’s identity was built around hiding things – his sexuality, being a synth, being happy for more than ten minutes at a time. The _Prydwe_ n was a magnificent feat of engineering. It would be a travesty to have a hand in destroying it. Should that be the case, Danse may never sleep soundly again.

Danse found himself constantly exhausted, both in spirit and body. He didn’t want to fight over factions anymore. Tired of boots on the ground and making the hard choices, all he wanted now was to learn to be a good husband and steadfast General. To worry over trade routes and rebuilding would be a welcome trade from the horrors of war. John’s return meant a decreased need for Calmex to ease his stress, and since joining him at the Castle, Danse hadn’t thought of the chem at all. So much for that bit of respite.

The heavy door creaked open and John entered, dragging a weapon far too big for him along the ground. Danse thought little of it – he’d grown used to John’s odd selection of overkill weaponry. The eyebot chittered excitedly at the sight of him. “Looks like we both got to wear orange today,” John remarked, depositing the gun. His eyes met Danse’s and his cheer faded. “Hey. You good?”

Danse shook his head, buckling the jumpsuit’s collar.

He tried to recall a game of chess where Arthur didn’t win. The little boy he’d cared for had grown into an unchecked tyrant. Maxson’s grandest error was in dealing with Danse himself. Revulsion and deceit led to a short-sighted order to kill Danse rather than… what? Turn him over to Scribes so they could experiment on him, slice him to pieces, then slide the bits under microscopes? To the Circle so they could do the same? That was standard procedure for other freaks found in the Wastes.

It’s what the Brotherhood would do to John if they found out about him. 

Danse’s breath escaped him. A synth making another synth just to please itself. What an unimaginable level of abomination. 

Arms slipped around him, holding him tight. “Don’t get lost in that pretty head o’ yours.” John’s words were warm in his ear. “You don’t gotta agree to this. I’ve got–”

“–someone else that can identify crucial load-bearing girders within the internal framework?” Danse finished for him, turning in the embrace. “Doubtful.”

John screwed up his face in a grimace and muttered, “Why you gotta pile on ten extra words to every sentence? You talk the way I write – _extraneously formal_.”

“I suppose we rub off on each other.”

“Only in private.” Danse grunted a laugh and squeezed John’s slim waist. John cracked a smile and traced the scar on Danse’s brow. “Hey... after, can we go someplace? Just us?”

Danse gave a bashful smile, tender emotion fizzing up inside. “Like… a honeymoon from the picture shows?”

“Yeah. Just the same.”

“I would enjoy that,” said Danse, pressing his forehead to John’s. “Very much.”

Dressed, Danse forwent the hood. It mainly served as a wind-buffer, and he wouldn’t be flying or on the ship long enough for it to matter. John patted Ed goodbye, the bot making mournful beeps, and both men made their way outside.

Under the throes of twilight, the mob leeching into the Castle grounds had thinned. Floodlights illuminated the field. The Gunners had left, en route into their northern positions. Royce’s vertibird, _Six_ , sat at the ready, two Minutemen flanking her, keeping raider paws off her hull. Cait and her raiders mingled with Sturges, Shaw and Minutemen forces around fire barrels. Someone was telling an animated story about a mutant Behemoth that once threw a car at them.

The atmosphere harkened back to many a pre-battle lull, when Danse would watch his comrades share one last smoke, a game of cards, a final joke before launching into the hell of combat.

Royce, her black uniform making her look like a nighttime phantom, glided up to John and him. “Paladin,” she greeted. “Shall we give this one last try?”

He jerked a nod. “With you, Knight-Captain.” He took John’s hand and followed Royce to the radio tower like a man to the gallows, feet heavy, his head bowed.

Seated at the controls beneath the towering pylon, Haylen, in her civilian wear, punched buttons and twisted knobs to just the right frequency. A round-faced terminal sat on the desk. Wired into the tower’s airwaves, the computer served as a monitoring device and signal repeater, looping important messages when necessary and sending them out. It was through this device that they sent early drafts of the Constitution to the Gunners and raiders.

“Ready when you are,” said Haylen, pushing the microphone towards Royce.

Standing with just Royce, Haylen, and John felt innately personal, a private moment between those most important to Danse. No interlopers to scrutinize one ultimate effort to calm the storm. Danse blew a long breath and wishing he could feel John’s touch beneath his gloves.

Royce lifted the microphone and gave Haylen a curt nod. Haylen flipped a switch, and a light on the controls changed from red to green. “To Elder Maxson and the officers aboard the _Prydwen_ ,” began Royce. “To the Proctors and forces on the ground. This is, again, Knight-Captain Christine Royce. On behalf of the Circle of Steel, we insist on the immediate surrender of East Coast operations. Elder Maxson is to oblige in accompanying me west, to stand trial for actions taken against the Codex.” She paused, the scars on her face tightening in determination. “Further resistance of this request will cause unwarranted upheaval. A transport is ready. I urge abrupt compliance.” She met Danse’s eyes and frowned. “ _Prydwen_ ,” she urged. “Please respond.”

A long stretch of tortuous waiting ensued. Royce set the microphone down and crossed her arms. Haylen closed her eyes, mouth moving in muted prayer. Danse held John’s hand in a vice-like grip, skin clammy inside his suit.

The radio spit static. “ _Let me be clear,”_ came the authoritative voice of Arthur. " _No man nor mountain shall sway me from my path. I am a Maxson, the last of my line. The Brotherhood is mine to do with as I see fit. Do not presume to command me again.”_

The line cut to dead silence.

“Well,” John grumbled. “That went as anticipated.”

“Dammit,” Royce seethed. “The fool’s left us with no choice.”

A peculiar sense of relief channeled through Danse. It took a moment to understand why. The push and pull of guilt inside him had quelled. The veil was lifted. The Brotherhood he’d believed in had never existed, and _the greater good_ was subjective to whoever it suited most in a particular instant. His brothers and sisters were confused, trapped, caught up in a whirlwind of zeal and shiny promises. Sterling defected. Haylen had escaped. Through unintended actions, so had Danse. But the rest… 

“Open the channel again,” he told Haylen. He dropped John’s hand and reached for the microphone. “And override all other frequencies. This is for everyone.”

She blinked at him for a handful of seconds before complying. Royce and John cocked their heads, brows quirked in concern.

Danse swallowed and filled his chest before speaking. “To those under Brotherhood command – despite what the reports say, my name is still Paladin Danse. I am also the General of the Minutemen.” He glanced to John, who lifted his chin in interest and nodded. Another steadying breath. “I want to make one thing clear to everyone,” he continued. “This body might be synth, but my heart and mind belong to the entirety of the Commonwealth people. I’ve made a commitment to you all. Brothers and sisters, I urge solidarity with the Circle and the West Coast faction. We are not fated to create civil war amongst us. I call on you to do what you know in your hearts is right. Remember Lyons. We _can_ build unification across the Wastes if only we try.”

He clutched at the mic and shut his eyes. Maxson had made his choice, but that decision need not condemn everyone beneath him. “To all those listening,” he continued. “To those who have the courage to see things plainly, I implore that you remove the squires from the _Prydwen_. I pledge a haven for them while the factions sort themselves out. You’ve fought with me. You know my word is my bond. Let our faults and sins end here, with us as the final generation to walk into this struggle willingly.” 

Danse felt solid ground beneath his boots, the brush of breeze on his cheek, and the resolve of so many people at his side. The region readied itself, the Brotherhood the last piece in the puzzle, the concluding obstacle standing in the way of peace. “Haylen,” he said to the side. Her eyes were small moons as she drank in his words. “Send the Constitution draft to all Brotherhood terminals.” A swift nod as she got to work.

“Read the words we’re sending you,” he implored over the airwaves. “This is the world we’re building. _Where there is unity, there is victory_ ,” Danse quoted. “ _Ubi concordia, ibi Victoria_. This is Paladin Danse. Signing off.”

A low sigh left him as he sat the mic down. He’d just asked for open rebellion against the Brotherhood’s leadership, banking on the jaded and fading grandeur of the faction. The chance of any reaction was slim. Still, he hoped his request spared squires’ lives and inspired the laying down of arms.

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say.”

Danse turned to find Sterling in his paladin armor, Cruz at his side, looking as if they’d been standing there for a while. Every time Danse saw the armor, his heart sank a little, remembering how he’d relied on it for so long as more than protection. It had been a tool, a shell that separated himself from others. He glanced at the others near him. Haylen leaned over the radio desk, head in her hands, smiling at him. Royce’s chest had puffed with pride and a softness lay in John’s eyes.

“I believe this is yours, Sir,” Sterling said. The suit hissed and cracked open as he stepped out of it. The thrum of propellors make everyone look up. A single vertibird soared over the Castle walls, tilting as it searched for a place to land. _Invictus._

It was time.

“We’ll be right below you,” Royce promised. “Skimming close to the shoreline should avoid the _Prydwen_ ’s alarms.” She tossed Danse a salute, then she, Sterling and Cruz made their way to _Six_ and boarded her. The ‘bird rumbled to life.

 _Invictus_ landed sloppily in the field, kicking up a flurry of dirt. Side-by-side, the two craft looked quite different. _Invictus_ ’ sleek hull gleamed while _Six_ ’s blocky, foreign design confirmed that it had once been an NCR transport.

Glory darted across the field toward _Invictus_. After sticking her head into the craft to speak with Tom, she gestured that Danse join.

The two ‘birds formed a steady drum of sound, the type of noise that drudged up memories of old campaigns and the anticipation of battle. A tap on Danse’s shoulder made him turn. John stood behind him, the strips of flag woven through his hair whipping frantically under the blow of the propellers. He said something, but the drone of the crafts swallowed his words.

An ambush of affection welled within Danse. This candid, uninhibited man was finally his, and they’d received nothing but support from everyone they knew. Over the roar of vertibirds, Danse reached out and yanked John in by the shirt for a forceful kiss right there in the field.

When they parted, John looked flustered, yet pleased. He gave Danse a good luck slap on the arm. In return, Danse made a quick grab for John’s reassuring fingers before climbing into his armor, the same he’d worn since stationed in the Capital. He, and it, had seen too much since then.

Haylen gave him a merry wave before he stomped towards _Invictus_ , lowering his helmet into place. He was cautiously aware of the explosives riding in his armor’s compartments. Glory sat in the co-pilot’s seat. Both she and Tom wore headsets. Danse took his place in the cabin, magnetizing the soles of his armor to the floor. The ratty armor Tom had worn previously stood next to him, waiting for Glory to wear, stuffed with its own explosives. It was ugly, but plenty of soldiers returned to the _Prydwen_ in scavenged armor after losing theirs in combat.

“The irony of a tin man in a tin can ain’t passing me by,” Tom mused through the speaker in Danse’s helmet. _Invictus_ wobbled into the night sky.

“Just keep it steady,” Danse grumbled into his com, protective of his old ship.

“No problems,” Tom answered, struggling with the yoke. “Like fallin’ off a log.”

It dawned on Danse that the remainder of the Commonwealth’s Railroad was in this ship with him. Deacon had been lost in the Institute. A few traveled to Far Harbor after learning of the synth refuge there. The rest had retreated to the Capital, where synths couldn’t rely on the Minutemen. That he, who’d hated and hunted the Railroad for so long, stood willingly alongside them came as no small realization.

The Castle became a distant five-pointed star as the ‘bird swung around the ocean to follow the coastline. Danse wished he were at the controls as the Commonwealth crawled by below, _Six_ trailing beneath and behind. Pride swelled at protecting this land and those within it. Danse was nothing without duty. He winced, wondering if enough time has passed for anyone to read and process John’s Constitution draft. 

Less than fifteen minutes later, the well-lit airport came into view. Moored to the steeple of the air traffic control tower, the enormity of the _Prydwen_ drifted in place, hull glowing from the lights below. She looked magnificent, sturdy, and familiar.

It felt like coming home.

“Come on, Tom,” Glory griped. “We’re getting closer to the blimp. Fly straighter.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!”

 _Six_ disappeared beneath them as _Invictus_ rose over the hydrogen containers supporting the airship. Danse had never given them much thought. Ship maintenance was an issue for deck crew and lancers, not field paladins. The craft got him to where he needed to be, and that was all he’d cared about.

“ _Invictus_ ,” a lancer on the _Prydwen_ asked, her voice echoing through the vertibird. “ _Do you request docking_?”

Tom gave Danse a frantic look. “Don’t answer that,” Danse told him. “Forcibly dock when you have to. They won’t have time to assemble armed intervention.”

“Alright,” Glory announced from her seat. She tossed Danse a Stealth Boy. “Then let’s go fuck this shit up.” Her brazenness reminded Danse of old teammates long dead.

Tom held _Invictus_ in a hover above the _Prydwen_. Danse demagnetized his suit and edged towards the door of the cabin. He braced his armors arms against the opening and leaned out. The docking piers stretched far enough for a precise landing. He homed in on one and hit his Stealth Boy. The armor around him shimmered, cloaking. “Initiating jump,” he stated. Danse stepped out of the ship.

A swift freefall ended with hitting the _Prydwen_ ’s deck. Though he couldn’t see himself, he felt reverberations in the metal underfoot. The constant drone of onboard motors disguised his touchdown, muffling the sound to only a muted thump. He looked right and left. Four members of the deck crew wandered about, doing low-priority upkeep or smoking, flinging butts off the side. One or two Gutsys floated about on patrol.

He just had to get through the next ten minutes. In ten minutes, Tom would dock to retrieve Danse and Glory and they’d be gone. He could see an unobstructed view of the airport. A flicker of light glanced off _Six_ ’s hull as she slowly skirted around the back of the building.

Danse pulled a slim signal flare from a gauntlet and flicked it on. It spat sparks before settling into a plain white light. “Ready to receive you, Glory,” Danse spoke into his open com. He held the flame aloft. “There’s a good three meters to either side of me. Just try to match my location.”

Glory’s response was expectedly sarcastic. “ _Sure thing. Simple._ ”

A wall of sound slashed the night. The thunderous groan of metal clashed with the high-pitched whir of rising energy. “ _UPDATED TACTICAL ASSESSMENT_ ,” boomed through the air.

Danse’s stomach dropped to his toes, and his gaze tore down to the airport. An active Liberty Prime banged within its gantry cage, warping the scaffolding. Its torso spun, eye burning red. The head scanned the airport, as if tracking something. To the right, _Six_ dipped among the airport ruins, slowing as she lowered, gaining Prime’s full attention. “ _RED CHINESE PRESENSE DETECTED_.”

Royce was about to drop Sterling and Cruz to the ground. “Oh, God,” Danse whispered, rooted too far away to change anything.

Through _Invictus_ ’ coms, Glory screamed, “Tom!”

Prime twisted in its enclosure, a spindly arm breaking free to grab for one of the bombs Danse himself had helped obtain. “ _AERIAL INCURSION BY COMMUNIST FORCES CANNOT SUCCEED_.”

 _Six_ seemed to glean that something was wrong. The ‘bird rose sharply, tearing away from the airport, heading towards the shelter of a large parking structure on the opposite side of the street.

Prime reeled back and sent a nuke sailing towards _Six_.

A fraction of a moment before impact, _Invictus_ dropped from the sky, banking into the bomb’s path. Danse’s vertibird promptly disintegrated. The ensuing fireball amplified as Glory’s explosives detonated. The combustion shrieked over _Invictus_ ’ still open coms. Danse ripped his helmet off with one hand, escaping the sound. Flame, smoke, and debris filled the street, concealing the fate of _Six_.

Brotherhood soldiers spilled from the _Prydwen_ ’s interior, rushing to the gangways, and stepping up on the rigging to watch the commotion below. An alarm rang in short bursts, and the mooring to the control tower was cast off.

Alone on deck, Danse held a signal flare in one hand, his helmet in the other.

“Paladin Sterling? Paladin? Your commands, Sir?” people asked, spotting his armor. From a distance, Danse and Sterling looked similar – dark hair and war-ravaged faces. But only from a distance.

“Mother of God…”

“Is that –”

“Don’t move!”

The group drew guns and pressed along the dock to corner Danse. His muscles softened, and he lifted both hands in utter defeat. The helmet landed with a clank and the flare slipped through the deck’s latticework, tumbling into open air.

With a lurch, the _Prydwen_ began to move.


	14. With Our Powers Combined

NATE

Boston Airport, MA

March 19th, 2289

“Brace!” Royce screamed as flaming debris knocked into _Six_ ’s tail.

Their ‘bird spun like a top. Nate clung to his seat as the console’s alarms screeched. One of the landing skids collided with the ground, jerking the craft to a forward tilt. _Six’_ s nose scraped across asphalt, slowing their crash. They slammed into the side of the airport’s parking structure, the impact hard enough to leave bruises under Nate’s safety belts.

Royce groaned and released her restraints. She clutched her side as she stood. “Get out. Now.” She shouldered her sniper rifle and leapt from the cabin.

Head pounding, vision blurry, Nate was slow to respond. He took a long drag through his nose, forcing calm and assessing the situation. The Geiger Counter in his Pip-Boy spiked, hissing aggressive clicks. A twisted heap of wreckage burned in the street. He faced Cruz on the galley seat beside him. “Are you okay?”

The young mechanic sat frozen, mouth and eyes wide open. “Was… was that the other vertibird?” she asked, voice rising in panic. “Was that a _bomb_?”

“That was Prime…” said Nate, fighting a clench in his stomach. _Tom… Glory… Danse_.

“Now, soldier!” barked Royce, snapping Nate to attention. His senses cleared. He got to his feet, pulled his Gauss close, and grabbed Cruz’s arm. He hauled her out as they evacuated the downed ‘bird and escaped into the parking structure. A boom shook rubble from the ceiling, marking the end of _Six_. Concrete dust dumped down on them like ash, blanketing hair and shoulders. Coughing, Royce urged, “Move!”, pushing them on.

The winding parking structure looped several stories high. Faded, flickering fluorescents on the last dregs of their fusion energy illuminated frames from parked cars, sitting rusted and picked clean of parts. They skated around feral bodies from early Brotherhood occupation, decomposed to the thinnest of sinew strung between bones. With Cruz and Royce at his side, Nate stooped to peer through a blown-out gap on the top floor, scanning the other side of the airport’s thoroughfare. 

Liberty Prime knocked against its enclosure like a bird testing the limits of its cage. “ _CORE SYSTEMS… INITIALIZING_.” Not long until the robot would walk freely about the Commonwealth.

Through the scope on his Gauss, he found the teleporter he’d used for his initial trip to the Institute dismantled. A chain of his own errors came to memory. “Ah, shit,” he growled, kicking himself internally. It had been his careless fault for leaving the teleporter’s remains sitting in the airport ruins for over a year. He’d been so busy – the Brotherhood, the Institute, the Minuteman, the Railroad, Valentine’s Detective Agency. Torn in so many directions, he hadn’t been on top of his own blunders. “Cruz. How long would a fusion generator power Prime?”

Dirt clung to the fear-sweat sheeting Cruz’s face. “I… uh… not long,” she figured. “An hour? Maybe half?”

“Thing could do a lot of damage in half an hour,” Royce commented, chambering a rifle round.

Over the crackle of the two burning vertibirds in the street, a steady thrum emerged from the night. Royce joined Nate pressed beside the gap. Pinpricks of light moved through the sky like falling stars approaching the airport. “Gunner ships,” said Royce. Nate cringed. The body of the airport had likely blocked view of Prime’s activity. The Gunners were coming in blind, assuming they would be fighting standard defenses, buying time for Cruz to implant the virus in Prime.

A bombardment of long-reaching laser fire erupted from the Prydwen and airport grounds, slicing the sky with red beams, striking at the Gunner squadron. The lead ship jerked as it took a hit. It swerved, broadsiding another craft before both angled into a wild decent and collided into the shore. The rest of the formation splintered, soaring overhead with a dull roar. Their bellies glowed from the airport floodlights, the stark emblem of a white skull decorating each fuselage. Mounted miniguns, gatlings, and plasma cannons countered Brotherhood defenses. A series of explosions littered the grounds as mounted turrets exploded, raining debris and fire. The Gunners began a second pass, circling around.

Metal crunched and squealed as Prime shook free of the gantry. It took an earth-shattering step. Scaffolding crashed to the ground, sending the attending scribes running for cover. _“INITIATING ORDER_ : _7395,”_ it announced, head lifting to the sky. _“DESTORY ALL COMMUNISTS!”_ A single, scarlet laser burst from Prime’s solitary eye. The beam cleaved a Gunner ship clean in two. Neat red lines capped each half as they fell.

“We have to take out Prime now!” Royce yelled over the tumult. Each step Prime took shook the entire parking structure.

“I need a terminal,” Cruz said, her face slack with uncertainty. “An interface. Some kind of hard-wired connection. With Prime on the go, I… I don’t know what to do.”

A crazy, terrible idea popped into Nate’s head, something no rational person would expect. Hunched in their feeble shelter, he recalibrated the settings on his Pip-Boy. Father – _Shawn_ – had granted him the ability to fast travel anywhere he wished using Institute transport tech. He could even take the nearest person with him. “Royce, head out,” he said. “Use a vertibird grenade to let the Gunners know to abort.” A plume of colored smoke was the fall back indicator. She frowned but nodded, and jogged down an exit ramp, rifle bouncing on her back.

With the location set, Nate gestured Cruz closer. “Hold on to… nothing, I guess,” he told her. He pressed a tab on the Pip-Boy.

A crack of blue lightning swallowed them whole.

The transport tech spat them directly inside the torso chassis of Liberty Prime. Not meant for human cargo, the inside of Prime was claustrophobic and dark, wedging Nate and Cruz practically in place **.** Flashes of laser fire popped in red slivers through the external paneling. “Oh, heck. Oh, sparks. Oh, gosh. Oh, heck,” Cruz repeated in a breathless loop.

Nate flicked on his Pip-Boy light. The throw was bright in the tight space, illuminating that they were in a complex metal framework cage, maybe five by eight feet. Outside the enclosure, hydraulic fluid pumped through wide tubing. The steel in Prime’s arms grinded and screeched as it moved. Each step shook them, knocking Nate and Cruz against one another. He cringed as the creaking joints and whir of servos beat on his eardrums. The acrid smell of oil and faint mildew from seaside air clung to Prime’s skeleton.

“You can get us back out, right?” Cruz yelled over active mechanics. She squirmed to find sturdy footing.

“Well… in theory.” Nate handed his Pip-Boy over to Cruz and wedged himself solid by bracing his shoulders and feet against opposite sides of their confines. Cruz sat on the steel plank floor, cradling the Pip-Boy in her lap, using it as a monitor. She retrieved a magnetized signal interceptor, something that looked like the familiar rectangle of a holotape but with flashing lights, and held it over the surface next to her. It pulled from her hand and adhered to Prime’s guts with a dull clink. The Pip-Boy’s screen filled with long lines of code that Nate couldn’t decipher.

“We’re in business,” said Cruz, tapping at the Pip-Boy’s keypad. As Prime rocked, she struggled to keep hold of the device. “Assessing central processor. Overriding program.” She squinted as she deciphered the code. “Looks like Prime is on temporary power. And something about, _stable power source incoming_. There’s a countdown. Mentions somebody named Ingram?”

“Means Proctor Ingram is on her way back from the city.” The interior cradle rocked, hammering Nate to one side. A panel of Prime’s hull glowed red-hot from Gunner fire. Heat threatened to suffocate them. Nate huffed and grimaced as Prime’s steps jostled the back of his head against welding and ground his Gauss into his back. It was sweaty, terrifying work waiting for Cruz to do her part while praying the Gunners didn’t hit something that would send a wave of flame traveling through the inside of Prime. “C’mon, Royce,” he muttered. “Get clear and send the signal.”

Cruz kept typing. “Initiating transfer. Virus uploading.”

“How long?”

“Ten percent. Fourteen –”

“ _HOSTILE SOFTWARE DETECTED,”_ Prime’s voice thundered from above. _“COMMUNIST SUBVERSION LIKELY_.”

Prime lurched sharply as it tossed another bomb, shaking them to their bones. “Isabel!” Nate cried. An explosion sounded in the distance.

“I can’t make data move faster!”

 _“TARGETING… PARAMETERS… OFFLINE. RE-CALIBRATING.”_ The steps and jostling movement slowed. Prime’s chassis ceased taking hits, a sign that forces had been either eliminated or stood down.

“It’s working!” Cruz exclaimed, a smile bending her lips. “Finalizing upload. Thirty seconds.”

Nate’s hand shot out. “Cruz! The Pip-Boy! Now!” She lifted the device and Nate thrust his wrist through the padded cuff. Feverishly, he spun the dial in search of a safe location.

Prime took a final crashing step and froze. Around them, the hum of energy and groan of mechanics stilled. Nate’s gut lurched as the chassis keeled forward. “Nate!” Cruz screamed, bracing her hands against their narrow compartment.

As Liberty Prime dropped like a puppet with its strings snipped, Nate activated a second bolt of lightning to whisk him and Cruz away.

Emerging from the roaring crack of fast travel, Nate and Cruz pitched forward, landing roughly on moist sand, blinking from the afterimage of a shockingly white energy burst. From where they sprawled, Nate recognized the shoreline as being part of the nearest allied settlement, Nordhagen Beach. A light in the small sea-side shack flicked on, and voices whispered in concern.

“Whoa,” Cruz exhaled beside him. “Where’d the blimp go?”

Nate hauled himself up and scanned the night. The sky above the airport was clear, the _Prydwen_ absent. He brought his Pip-Boy to his mouth. “Castle?” he called through Radio Freedom. “Come in, Castle.”

No one answered.

“Sturges?” he tried again.

Nothing but static _._

“John?”

A chilly feeling seeped through Nate’s chest. He glanced at Cruz, who stared at him through large, anxious eyes.

“Anybody?” he pleaded.

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to fangirlanonymous for helping me through this series for YEARS! There aren't enough kudos to give.


End file.
